Day: April 1, 2013

At the beginning of each month, I write about contributions to the blog, another of those many things I said I would never do but which now feels as natural as getting up in the morning. I have the most wonderful readers. Not one person has complained about the contributions or challenged the idea of them, and hundreds of people from all over the world have sent contributions, those for $3 as meaningful as those for $200. The contributions go to pay for the cost of maintaining the blog and of supporting my photography, two meaningful but expensive elements of my creative life that are increasingly important to me, and which generate little or no revenue on their own.

When I began the blog on Memorial Day in 2007, I saw it as something that might supplement my books, and I knew my life was about to change and wished to record the experience. I never imagined it would be something that would grow as it has, and be seen all over the country and much of the world. The blog averages more than 25,000 visits a day now and is growing rapidly. It fees onto Facebook, where the site has more than 10,400 regular followers, many more who visit. It has also, of course, become much more expensive because of it’s growth, requiring changes in design, server space and routine maintenance. I am considering adding a podcast from Bedlam Farm to the blog, and that will cost more than $2,000 to set up.

When I began taking photos in 2006, the first photos I have ever taken in my life, I had no notion how integral a part of the blog this would be. Or how expensive photography is. When the recession arrived, of course, publishing changed radically,  between the economy and the rise of inexpensive e-books, which generate drastically smaller royalties and revenues for writers. Digital photography also made the sales of print photos nearly obsolete. This is life, everyone reading this has seen life change, and change can be good. As I evolve as a new kind of writer – blog, books, e-books, photos, videos and podcasts, I am grateful for the creative challenge.

The world is changing, and I am learning to change with it.  Part of my own growth is understanding that I can be successful and creative without having to be a big shot. Big shots don’t worry about money, writers do. And I am learning to be comfortable saying these are not all things I can continue to pay for by myself without getting paid more directly for all of the work that is involved. I guess the difference between the new world and the old is that the subsidized world is ending. I no longer compete with the professional writers of the world, but with a million free titles on Amazon, and the plunging economic value of books.

So on the first of each month, I remind people of the idea of contributing for the blog and the photographs, thank them for supporting my work and helping to keep bedlamfarm.com free. This is one of the things that I wish to remain free of charge to anyone who enjoys, finds it stimulating, or gets something out of it. Some things in the world ought to be free. Nothing really is, I suppose.  My photos are not sold, they are free for you to use in any way you wish. If you can, contributing to the maintenance of both is meaningful, helpful too. If you can’t, there is no pressure. There is no suggested donation, whatever is comfortable for you. Many thanks. Being authentic feels good, as does learning there is never any shame is being open and honest.

We had the most beautiful holiday weekend. I did some brooding and mournful reflections, then remembered the promise of resurrection and rebirth, and that was the feeling at this farm all weekend. We planted two lilac bushes, cleaned up the woodshed, got rid of the old tire pile and there, a new horizon, open and uplifting.

This morning, I celebrate the joy of life, standing at the crossroads of different ways in which to look at the world. A dark place or a bright place. A future filled with color and light, or fear and darkness. There is always the choice, and I choose the joy of life, grateful for each precious day, thankful for the chance at long last to love and be loved, eager to embrace the challenges of life.

To make a book, take a photo, encourage a hopeful spirit.

I worship the creative spark and am grateful to see it burning all around me, in the students in my writing workshop, in Maria, in the messages I get from the ether, and in me, my fingers, my computer and the camera. The joy of life cannot be present every minute of every day. Life intrudes too often – this morning, a dead phone, car tire problems, computer and cable issues. But it is always there to be claimed and re-claimed, and I picked it up this weekend and have it still.

Some days I hear a lot of old people noise,

some of it coming from me, some from them.

How is your health?, people say, looking deeply into my eyes.

Why don’t they say, “how are you?” Do they really want to know?

My knees say, “hey, think about how you are going to stand up sometimes!”

My feet say, take off your shoes, I need to rest.

Maria says, “hey, let me carry that, and grabs my  bucket

or shovel.”

The girl at the Dunkin’ Donuts window offers me my  “Senior” discount,

five cents off my cup of tea.

The health insurance company calls me to asks if I need to buy transportation

insurance to get to the doctor, or someone to come to the house to help me tie my shoes.

And asks me if I can bend over and touch my toes. No, I say, not now, not when I was ten.

Sometimes, I have to think a minute to remember a name.

Sometimes, people say “at our age,” and shake their heads.

A man came up to me and slapped me on the back at the grocery,

and laughed and said, “do we still buy green bananas?”

The kid at the hardware store asks me if I need help carrying my stuff to the car.

Will I choose to stay alive as long as possible, anywhere I can,

at any cost to anyone alive? Or will I choose to move on

well and with dignity and love around me?

People tell me how their health is, even when I don’t ask.

Some of them don’t talk about the weather and politics any more,

it doesn’t matter any more,

they tell me about their tests, like weekly scores in a playoff.

They are on the way the pharmacy, picking up their pills.

They don’t think it’s right to get a dog any more.

Is this the meaning of growing older?

Finally learning something. Seeing the wisdom and humor of the world?

Passing things along. Taking a breath. Saving love and the sweetness of days? Having many things to write?

Is growing older a mindset? Or lament? Another chapter, or the story of health insurance?

Is it what I say about me, or what doctors say?

What I feel, or what the tests show?

I don’t want to make old people noise, it is not a sweet or thoughtful sound.

Here is my mindset.

I know where I am.  I used to think I was always about to die.

Now, I think I will live to be 90, and am just heading

for mid-career.

Thank you, I am fine. And thanks for asking.