I recently finished reading Ray Bradbury’s collection of essays titled Zen in the Art of Writing.  Mr. Bradbury states that writers need two things — “zest” and “gusto.”

“… if I were asked to name the most important items in a writer’s make-up, the things that shape his material and rush him along the road to where he wants to go, I could only warn him to look to his zest, see to his gusto.”

“If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer.”

Mr. Bradbury’s words got me thinking about my own levels of zest and gusto.  Back in the day, I think I had a lot of zest and gusto.  I’ve had adventures — I’ve gone parasailing and taken a sunset hot air balloon ride.  I drove myself around San Francisco, exploring and seeing the sites, by myself, and in the days before there were Smartphones to help me navigate.  I used to take myself to Santa Monica for the day (via the bus), to wander around the Promenade just because I wanted to.  I often had limited finances and limited transportation options, but I went out and did things.  I had zest.  I had gusto.

Now I wonder if I still do.  And the fact that I wonder is perhaps a sign that I don’t have as much zest and gusto as I once had.  In all fairness, it became much more challenging to continue some of my adventuresome activities once I became a parent.  Two years after that milestone, I was stricken with my autoimmune disease.  And I’ll be honest, it’s difficult to feel zest and gusto while I’m feeling pain.

It’s easy to be self-critical, to come down hard on myself for the things I no longer do, to accuse myself of not living with zest and gusto.

But that’s not right.  Because I look at my family, and I marvel at my eight-year-old son, and I know I’m loving with zest and gusto.  And I look at my own writing, and I know that I’m putting my heart out on the page, and that certainly qualifies as zest and gusto.

Dear Readers,

A version of this post appeared on my first blog back in 2013.  But recently, I was waiting for my blended mocha at my local Coffee Bean and found myself glancing at the bags of coffee on sale.  I thought it might be a good time to post a slightly updated version of this post.  Enjoy!

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I’m not a coffee drinker.  My morning beverage of choice is a mug-full of apple juice, with one ice cube.  I do, however, enjoy the occasional coffee-type beverage, either a cafe mocha or an iced blended mocha (depending on the weather).

Recently, while at my local Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, I noticed the signs for the bags of coffee they sell.  And I realized, that my personality was written on those shelf tags.  I can be succinctly summed up using the same adjectives that describe international coffee beans.

1. Light and subtle.  I am Caucasian, which means that my skin color is considered light.  I hope I am subtle in many ways including my sarcasm and my fragrances.  Generally, I think less is more on both counts. 

2. Light and distinctive.  I do not limit myself by only wearing dark clothes, nor do I outline my eyes with dark eyeliner.  However, I want to be distinctive; I want to stand-out and not look like everyone else walking in and out of Coffee Bean.  My jewelry, I think, achieves that goal.  Rings on eight of my ten fingers.  Earrings and necklace to match the day’s outfit.  Two bracelets, a watch, and an anklet complete the ensemble.

3. Medium and smooth.  I am of medium height at 5’6”.  And my daily application of lotion is to try and maintain smooth skin.  I want my hands to be welcomed, as I tenderly smooth my son’s hair and kiss him good-night.

4. Dark and distinctive.  I am not a blonde-haired, blue-eyed California girl.  I am instead a brown-haired, brown-eyed California girl.  And while my jewelry may make the top part of me distinctive, my footwear takes care of the bottom part of me.  I am a person who is usually walking around in either tennis shoes or clogs. Unlike other California girls, no high heels or flip flops can be found in my closet.

5. Decaffeinated.  I pride myself on being rather level-headed, sensible, and down-to-earth.  I am not overly hyper or overly loud.  When I was teaching, I was frequently told that I had a calming way with my students.

6. Flavored.  Anyone who peeks inside my bathroom will find a cornucopia of flavors that are used to cleanse my body.  My shampoo and conditioner are blackberry sage tea flavored.  My body wash is sweet pea and violet fragrance.  And for my skin, it’s sweet pea body lotion. 

There you have it.  Wendy Kennar, in a coffee bean (instead of a nutshell).

I don’t have a lot of friends.  And I’m not talking about “Facebook friends.”  (I’m not even on Facebook.  You can read an essay over at RoleReboot.org that explains why.) 

In terms of real, three-dimensional people, I do have a small, close circle of friends.  Friends who have been my friends for years.  There’s Aya, my pen pal who lives in Japan.  She and I have been writing letters since 1993.  (You can read the blog post I wrote about our friendship here).

There’s Evelyn, a woman I met during my college years, when I worked in a public library.  More than 20 years later, we’re still friends. 

There are my teacher friends, but as it happens in life, once I stopped teaching, our relationships started to slowly fizzle.  It was hard to maintain them when the times I could talk (while my son was in school) were exactly the same times they couldn’t (because they were teaching in school). 

But in the last couple of years, I’ve made three new friends.  And it occurred to me the other night that I only met these women because of my autoimmune disease.  If I was still teaching, I never would have participated in a chronic pain group (friend number one), I never would have attended a daytime writing class (friend number two), and I never would have attended a three day writer’s retreat (friend number three).

It’s easy to go through my days and think about how much harder many aspects of my life have become.  It’s easy to fall into the trap of sadness, to focus on the losses.  Chronic pain will do that.  And that’s all true.  But it’s important to also remember that there are a few silver linings.  And I definitely count these three women, our friendships, as silver linings.

I am a writer.

Generally, those are not easy words for a writer to say (or to write). 

For a long time, I used to say I wanted to be a writer.  I thought a writer had to be someone who was published.  Then after I was published, I thought a writer was someone who had to be published on a regular basis.  I can now say I am published on a regular basis.  (Feel free to check out my Published Work link).

But really, as one of my favorite instructors at the UCLA Extension Writer’s Program says — a writer is someone who writes.  That’s it.  It’s that simple.  And I write. 

I’ve been re-reading some books from my bookshelf; books that I haven’t read in years, books that I re-read to determine if I wish to still keep them or if they should be donated to our public library.

I recently finished Roberta Jean Bryant’s Anybody Can Write.  I bought this book before I started teaching (which was in 2001).  So it’s been on my shelf a long time.  I’ve read it more than once.  I’ve highlighted passages, folded down the corners of pages, tagged other pages with Post-its.  During my other reads, I always felt so encouraged by Ms. Bryant’s words.  As if she had written this book for me, to get me writing.  But this time around, I realized that I was reading this book differently.  I wasn’t reading in hopes of becoming a writer.  I was reading as a writer. 

I don’t say this to brag in any way.  It’s just interesting to take note of the way my life has changed.  For twelve years, I told people I was a teacher.  For the years before that, I was a student.  Now when asked, I say I’m a writer.

I’m not sure how we got on the topic, but the other night my husband, son, and I were talking about the ways phones have changed over the years.  To put things into perspective, my husband and I are forty; cell phones didn’t become a regular part of our lives until we were adults.  Whereas the first iPhone came out in 2007, and our son was born in 2008, which makes him a member of the generation that is growing up with cell phones as a permanent part of their daily lives. 

My first cell phone was about the size of a brick.  My parents gave it to me with strict instructions that it was to be used only in the event of an emergency.  At the time, I was a college student without a car.  My daily commute required six buses and a round-trip commuting time of between 3 1/2 and 4 hours.  The cell phone was supposed to be a bit of a safety precaution; luckily I never used it.

Before that, when I lived with my parents, our home phones used to be firmly planted in place.  There was one that hung on the kitchen wall, and even with an extra-long phone cord, you could only pull the phone so far.  It was a big deal in our family when we added a wireless phone in the living room.  Suddenly, you were given freedom and the opportunity to move about while on the phone.

But then our memories took us back to Rotary dial phones, and we tried to describe to our son the rotating-motion involved with dialing “back then.”

For our eight-year-old son, “back then” may seem like a long time ago.  For my husband and I, it really doesn’t seem like that long ago when we were eight years old.  And the surprising/shocking/scary thing is how quickly technology changes, and as a result, our lives. 

In case you didn’t already know, we’re a basketball family.  (Here’s a link to an earlier, basketball-related blog post you might enjoy:  https://wendykennar.com/2016/04/20/thoughts-from-a-fellow-76er/)

And although it doesn’t involve our favorite team, the Los Angeles Clippers, we’ve been watching the NBA Finals.  It’s a big deal in our family to be able to watch a basketball game on TV, because unlike many other families, we only have basic television channels.  Which means that for most of the basketball season, we watch highlights and recaps, but rarely are able to see a whole basketball game from start to finish.

Last week, we had a special night planned, and our son was super excited.  It was his last day of second grade, we ordered in pizza for dinner, and we had promised him that he could stay up later than usual to finish watching the game. 

But — the commercials.  Without exaggerating, it felt like during every commercial break my son and I were turning our heads away from the TV.  There were commercials for movies and TV shows that just weren’t age-appropriate at all.  And the commercials we did watch, really didn’t make us, as a society, look very good.  There were a multitude of commercials for fast food establishments, cars, and beer. 

Even on a night when I was anticipating a low-key, low-Mommy-energy-night, I still  had to be “on.”  “On” meaning in vigilant, Mommy-teacher mode.  Explaining what I could (when my son asked), trying to determine within a few seconds which commercials we could and could not see, and reminding my son that it’s still basketball — a game in which grown-ups run back and forth and attempt to put the ball into the hoop.

And maybe one of these days I’ll realize there really is no such thing as a low-key, low-Mommy-energy-night after all.

A very good friend gave me a copy of Cheryl Strayed’s book Brave Enough.  It’s a collection of quotes, and each day, I read a different one.  I’m a bit more than twenty pages through, and have tagged a few quotes with Post-It notes.  Here’s one I’d like to share:

“You go on by doing the best you can.  You go on by being generous.  You go on by being true.  You go on by offering comfort to others who can’t go on.  You go on by allowing the unbearable days to pass and by allowing the pleasure in other days.  You go on by finding a channel for your love and another for your rage.”

That quote seems to speak for many of my days.  I go on, simply trying to do the best I can.  I try to be a good person, showing kindness and respect to others, modeling behavior I hope my eight-year-old son will emulate.  And, I go on knowing that some days, or even parts of days, will feel unbearable and will lack much pleasure. 

My family feels my love, sees my love, hears my love.  My rage though is quiet — sobs in the shower or while I’m alone in the kitchen.  Rage won’t change my situation.  Rage won’t make the pain go away. 

But love will keep me going, slowly putting one foot in front of the other.

 

I don’t know if I have an answer to that question.  Yet.

But, I have a written personal essay that discusses my thoughts on the matter. The essay was recently published at Mutha Magazine, and I’d like to share it with my readers.  

Here’s the link:  http://muthamagazine.com/2016/05/can-acknowledging-my-weakness-actually-be-a-sign-of-strength-asks-wendy-kennar/

 

Dear Readers,

This week, I’m pleased to share that Mamalode.com has published one of my essays for this month’s theme, “Cherish.”

But I need your help.  Mamalode compensates writers based on how many unique views a post receives.  Minimum payment requires 500 views within 30 days, but of course, the more the better!

Please use the link below to view my essay on all your devices! And please, share the link with others and ask them to do the same.

Thank you so much for your support!

http://mamalode.com/story/detail/dear-ryan-you-are-the-best-of-me

 

When I was in my early years of elementary school, I thought I might grow up and write “stories.” 

But, turns out stories are hard to write.  As a writer, you have to create these whole worlds and fill them with people who do stuff, who live in certain places, eat favorite foods, and have jobs and relationships and problems. 

And I’ve found that the stuff that happens in real life turns out to be much more interesting, much more funny, much more off-the-wall than anything I could have created.

So instead of “stories,” I write non-fiction.  I write personal essays that sometimes make their way into publications.  (Check out my “Published Work” link to learn more).  I write informational pieces for MomsLA.com.  And I write to try and figure things out for myself.

But, it turns out that there’s still a lot I haven’t figured out.  I haven’t figured out how to live with a chronic medical condition without letting it completely define me but while also acknowledging the limitations it imposes on my life.  I haven’t figured out the differences between jelly and jam and marmalade.  And I still haven’t figured out how to whistle.

Maybe I won’t ever figure some things out.  After all, I’m forty now and the whistling thing just isn’t happening. 

But I’ll keep trying to make sense of life in the only way I know how — one word at a time.  I’ll keep writing.