Post date: Apr 14, 2020 2:11:3 AM
For the last several weeks, I've been meeting with a group of graduate students every Wednesday for an hour, the "Graduate Student Writing Group".
Every Wednesday, the group meets on Zoom for an hour (if you'd like to attend, read the link in the menu and send me an email).
We do the same thing every week. We take a few minutes at the start to write on the following:
My goals for __________ were __________. I did/did not meet them, if I did not meet them, it is because of __________ and __________. Some things that worked for me were_________. My goals for today/tomorrow are __________.
Then, each person shares what they've written, one after the next. We keep it simple.
After the last person shares, I try to sum up-- to highlight something someone has said or to point people to a resource. In those last moments, I've found that there is so much I'd like to highlight or point people toward, I find myself simply flustered.
The truth is, all that needs to be said has, usually, already been said-- a suggestion, a strategy, a reassuring word. A model for practice or an example.
Every week someone has shared a story of faltering, of stumbling. They can't "start," they can't figure out what to do to "start".
Fear weighs on them, worry about loved ones, a lab has closed down, data is incomplete, work that appeared to run forward on a straight path a few weeks ago now seems-- tricky, obscure, with alternatives arrayed against themselves.
The title of this post is a saying that I've heard many times.
When we fall, the hard ground we landed on gives us the leverage we need to get up again-- slow, sore, maybe embarrassed, we look around to see who's seen us fall.
In our work-- or creative work-- how to "get up" can seem...impossibly complex.
When I have fallen in this way in my work, the last time I worked can seem so far behind me that beginning again appears to require some new strategy, or reevaluation of my purpose, or some method or teacher.
Then it's often hard, but necessary, to remind myself that my first task should be a simple but necessary one-- to get back up.
I haven't yet thought of how this metaphor works itself out-- what is the ground in this metaphor that I am using to get back up?
Keep it simple, though-- Sort papers, clear your desk, wipe your desk down, sweep the floor. Sort books. Take stacks of papers and make them look like piles of paper. Take inventory. Look at at what I have. Choose one thing to start.
Sometimes, the biggest problem when we falter is thinking that something more has to happen to begin again-- so we wait. Which can make it harder to begin. Yes-- there are things you can do, a little of this or that, a thing here or there that someone else has done that might help.
What I found myself saying-- and others agreed. If someone hadn't written a word, hadn't read a book, hadn't bookmarked a page-- but they came to the group and said so, and listened-- that was certainly enough.