Still Desiderata-ing After All These Years

There are words that you hear as if they were meant for you. This is how I've always felt about the prose poem, Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann.

I probably heard it for the first time in the 1970s, when I was just starting to pay attention to such things and when the poem, penned in the 1920s, experienced a resurgence in popularity.

The word “Desiderata” comes from Latin and means “things that are desired.” 

The language Ehrmann uses is a little out of vogue: feign and vexatious, and there are tons of not-currently-in-favor semicolons. But no matter how old fashioned, the text has been alive to me since I first encountered it.

I have committed pieces of the poem to memory and frequently phrases pop into my head as inspiration (remember what peace there may be in silence) or as admonishment (listen to others; even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their stories).

Most importantly, the text of Desiderata has been a teacher, a prayer, a solace at crucial times in my life.

Mali, West Africa, circa 1984

I was a Peace Corps trainee, trying to learn everything I could in a three-month period before moving into my assigned village. How to speak and write in French and Bambara. How to behave respectfully in a new culture. How to build woodburning stoves (primary project), and teach prenatal nutrition to pregnant women (secondary project). It was overwhelming.

Throughout the training, current volunteers were paraded in front of us, each with their own take on “How to be a successful PCV.” We received lots of advice, some of it conflicting and some of it counter to what I knew about my own abilities.

Fortunately, I had tucked a copy of Desiderata into my luggage before leaving home. The words that comforted me in this time were:

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself… 

and

Be yourself.

Above: I am obviously thrilled with the gift,

in recognition of my stove building efforts in NTarla, Mali.

Los Angeles, California, circa 1988

A more fish out of water you couldn’t have found than me, in L.A., after my stint in Africa, working for a big corporation on Wilshire Boulevard. We’re talking major culture shock. I drew inspiration from:

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time…

and 

go placidly amid the noise and haste...

Lusk, Wyoming, 9/11

We all have memories of that day, and mine involve digging out my tattered copy of Desiderata, the same one I had with me in Mali, and holding on to these words:

Everywhere life is full of heroism…

Cheyenne, Wyoming, January, 2012

As we dealt with the news of my stepdaughter’s death by suicide, I was forced to draw on every bit of spiritual insight I could find.

Again, Desiderata helped:

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune…

and

in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul…

and

be gentle with yourself… 

and

Be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

The poem is taped up in my writing room now—a newer copy, since the old one disintegrated. I looked at it recently, on May 11th, the day of our 28th wedding anniversary, and smiled:

Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

And while I have you, I’ll share the words that never fail me to remind me to be humble, to recognize I may not have the perspective to decide whether everything is tilting toward apocalypse or, conversely, we are evolving toward enlightenment:

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should... it is still a beautiful world.

Who knows what part of Desiderata I will tuck into my heart’s pocket next?

Let's Begin by Being a Beginner

Afore-mentioned grandnephew, long time ago, sending me cryptic signals. Never did figure it out...

My grandnephew, age 13, was twitchy in the passenger seat—all wound up from attending a session of the 4-H robotics program my sister and I enrolled him in this fall. He was going on and on about what was involved in building and coding a Lego robot.

Then he said in an excited, but also slightly panicky voice, “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Of course, you don’t know how,” I said. “You’ve never done it before.”

This exchange reminded me that as a rule most of us are really lousy at letting ourselves be beginners.

But he’s a kid, so of course he’s a beginner at a lot of things.

Those of us who are adults (or a-dolts as husband and I like to say), with all our knowledge and experience, well, are we ever really beginners?

Yeah, actually, we are. We just don’t like to admit it.

All that is required is the humility to be a beginner.

     -Julia Cameron

I started creative writing at the ripe age of 49. I’d written plenty in my jobs, volunteer activities, etc. But I decided to take up creative writing—essays, creative nonfiction, poetry, and fiction.

I made a pact with myself at the time--even wrote it down:

I am a beginning writer. As such, I will be self-conscious and awkward. There will be times when my writing resembles literary acne. I’ll trip up the stairs of story and make a lot of questionable decisions.

I figure it’s all part of growing up as a writer.

Now, I’m 67 and I have been writing creatively all that time. That means I’m a grown-up writer now, right?

Only I’m entering a new phase. I have a novel manuscript that I've been working on for the last four years. I printed it off and after a short hiatus (to let the story clear from my brain a bit) the task of revising the manuscript will begin.

I’ve never done this before. When it comes to revision of long-form fiction, I am a beginner.

Damn. Have I mentioned that I don’t like being a beginner? That I’ve never liked it?

Testing football helmets. Know the feeling?

When I was in the Peace Corps in Mali, West Africa, I was required to learn two languages: French and Bambara. During the three months of pre-service training, we had what was called immersion, which meant that right after breakfast and until dinner was served, we weren’t allowed to speak English. This forced us to practice our new language skills.

Basically, I was mute during immersion, except for the minimum amount of speaking required in class. I zipped my lip so I wouldn’t sound like an idiot.

The staff was worried about me. One trainer (Seth, I think it was) said something that stuck with me. “You have to be okay with sounding like a three-year-old in the beginning. It’s tough on your pride, but it’s the only way you’ll learn.”

I did better once I got to my village. It helps when your survival depends on spitting out something.

I made a lot of mistakes, like the time I was explaining to my friend Hawa, in my halting Bambara, that we have a saying in English: I stuck my foot in my mouth. Only I got the word for foot wrong. I said “sin” when I should have said “sen.”

The resulting phrase was: I stuck my breast in my mouth.

Yeah. I did that. You should have seen her face.

But I learned, tripping and falling all the way. And what’s a few feet in the mouth anyway?

We are always afraid to start something that we want to make very good, true and serious.

-        Brenda Ueland

In my writing group, the Coddiwomple Crew, new members struggle to read their writing out loud. There are usually lots of disclaimers: I don’t really know where this is going… it’s not very good… bear with me. That sort of thing. We always tell them that it’s not necessary, but they do it anyway.

Eventually they get over that and just read what they’ve got.

Fortunately I have my musecat to help with the revision project...

All of this to remind myself that when it comes to revising a novel:

• I’ve never done this before.

• I’ll make mistakes but nobody will die (except maybe in the story).

• It's better if you just dive in.

And in the immortal words of Bob Ross:

As long as you’re learning, you’re not failing.

Delights

post by Lynn

My dog Sammy, God rest his soul, used to love to sniff my head and snuffle through my hair. When he finished, he always gave me one of those silly grins that labs are famous for.

Why did he love to sniff my head?

Hell if I know.

Why do any of us love what we love? I only know I was always glad to see Sammy happy, so I let him sniff away.

Which brings me to today’s topic:

Delight.

If you are casting about for something to spark your creativity, as I always am, I suggest you give serious consideration to your delights.

Quite often, we creatives are elbowed into focusing on our pain, fears, regrets, and secrets. All well and good, and there is much to be had there. But don’t forget that there is treasure, too, in the things that glow in your life.

DELIGHTS, CELEBRATED

“The world is mud-luscious,”

- e.e. cummings.

Oooh, I think e.e. delighted in mud, don't you?

So, what delights you?

I am not talking about what you’re passionate about. Delight is different than passion. Less demanding, in my mind. I’m not talking about what makes you laugh either, although you may sometimes laugh in delight.

Delight is a very specific emotion. For me, it’s when something catches my attention and I simply stand, look, and smile. Or it’s when I notice that I’d really like to just hang out in a particular moment for a good, long time.

A few years ago, I started a Delights journal. The impulse came when I read this quote:

“I put in my pictures everything I like."

- Pablo Picasso

Hey--if it’s good enough for Picasso, it’s good enough for me.

DELIGHTS, UNEARTHED

It dawned on me that it might be fruitful to take note of things that spark delight in me. I selected a small notebook and started taping onto the pages images of (and written notes on) things I could honestly say delight me.

A sampling of what has made its way into this notebook:

• Photo of a highway: open road, blue Wyoming sky overhead. It’s a very specific shade of blue, one that I miss whenever I am outside of my home state. I think it has something to do with almost total lack of moisture in the air 😊.

• Image cut from a dog calendar: a hot, panting retriever with his belly on a cool spot.

• Notation: a camping ritual – the comforting sensation of a steaming hot washcloth on my face just before bed.

• Photo: of my grandnephew at age 5 or 6. It was his first mutton-busting competition and I delight in the set of his small shoulders as he concentrates on the upcoming challenge.

• Image: clipped from an old copy of Wyoming Wildlife magazine, of a pika with a mouthful of grass. I mean, who can resist pikas?!

• Notation: I heard a guy say, "I’m flustrated" – I don’t think he meant to coin a new term, but I think it’s, well, delightful and descriptive.

• Notation: the feeling I get when my dog Luna is sleeping, and I tickle the hair between her paws until she kicks. Not sure I should admit that I take delight in pestering my dog this way, but I guess I have to own it, don’t I?

• Photo: one Husband took at Curt Gowdy State Park (see above) where water reflects stone and pine, creating a disorienting and eye-delighting image.

• Notation: watching the ducks at Mylar Park. There are few things more smile-inducing to me than a duck’s waddle or an upturned duck butt.

• Photo (below): one I took at a gallery in Boulder, Colorado. I was fascinated by the installation, but delighted by the shadow it created on the wood floor.

My delights have found their way into my writing on occasion--as in a blog post, titled Whale Watching, where I riffled through my memory files and extracted a scene from a delightful adventure:

You turn in that direction just as a fountain of water spatters the surface of the sea. Then the maw of a blue whale rises up out of the liquid floor, followed by the massive barnacled slide of a whale body. Then the tail, etched with white scars, flips way up into the air and back down, slamming the surface.

A curtain of water splashes the crowd on the boat. Everybody laughs and applauds (as if the whale were performing a stunt). You giggle with your friends as you wipe the salty water from your face.

I know I’m not the only one who pays attention to my delights. I find evidence everywhere of it in the things I read:

Like Wyoming poet Pat Frolander, delighting in food (and making my mouth water):

Coffee burbles, potatoes steam, fresh bread awaits the knife, roast beef braises, brown gravy simmers.*

Or when Nebraska state poet Matt Mason delights in the memory of the submarine ride in Disneyland, (Ah, yes, Disneyland. I know it well. Can we go back there now?)

where it was…

as if you had

all gone under the waves and down

to Atlantis’ cracked pillars,

mermaids waving, undersea volcanoes. **

PERMISSION GRANTED

Sometimes I find it helps to have permission to do things, so...

By the power vested in me by absolutely no one, I hereby grant you permission to pay close attention to your delights.

In whatever fashion works for you, collect the evidence. Then see where it leads you.

If you write fiction, one of your delights might attach itself to your main character. Many fine works of art leak out of the artist’s delight in a particular scene or image.

Or

How about penning a Five Delights song?

Or

A gustatory masterpiece might develop from one of your taste delights.

So many options!

It sure can’t hurt to focus on your delights, and it might very well help.

“What you focus on grows, what you think about expands, and what you dwell upon determines your destiny.”

– Robin Sharma

* From “Second Table” by Pat Frolander, published in Married Into It, Glendo, Wyo.: High Plains Press 2011.

** From “Ode to Submarine Voyage (1959 – 1998)” by Matt Mason, published in At the Corner of Fantasy and Main: Disneyland, Midlife and Churros, Old Mill Press, 2022