Conversation at Cassandra Pages

The following conversation between Elizabeth Adams and Fiona Robyn was originally published here, and focuses on Robyn's book, 'small stones: a year of moments' (2008).

Fiona, I've really enjoyed your book. Your practice of attentiveness and writing about at least one particular, memorable thing in your day has, of course, a lot of resonance here at The Cassandra Pages! To begin, I wondered if you could say a few words about your dedication to Shunryu Suzuki, because his teaching was also very important to me.

Thank you. A friend recommended 'Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind' a few years ago when I told them I was getting interested in Zen thought, and I don't know about you, Beth, but I didn't understand much of it on my first read through! Something about the spirit of the writing stuck with me, though, and several years later I read it again and went on to read his autobiography, 'Crooked Cucumber', which somehow moved me profoundly. I love the simplicity of Suzuki's message - 'just sit', 'nothing extra', 'when the bell rings, get up', but most of all I felt like I'd 'spent time with him' by the end of the book, and that it had been a great honour and learning opportunity. What do you get from his writing?

My experience was almost the same - on the first reading I just didn't connect with the book, but about ten years later, it was a totally different experience, and each time I've picked it up since, I've gotten more out of it. "When the student is ready, the teacher appears." I think what appealed to me especially was the gentleness of his teaching and writing. He's firm but kind, and the sort of perseverance and attention he speaks about made sense to me and have helped and changed me over time. But his prose also touched me deeply and particular passages, like the one about why we should polish the tile, or clever students having the most trouble, or Nirvana and the waterfall, made a huge difference to me. I'm profoundly grateful to him.

One thing I noticed and liked in particular about your "small stones" is that they're not all pleasant or beautiful. Could you say something about that, in light of what we've been talking about here?

I think praise as a practice is much neglected, and I much admire the work of bloggers like Clare Grant at Three Beautiful Things who help us to remember how much we have to be thankful for. But as a writer I am interested in the whole truth, 'things as it is (sic)' as Suzuki might say! Rather than looking away from road-kill or homeless people, I've found it more helpful to look more closely. These things are a part of our everyday reality. We all contain these dark places, and only we can start to acknowledge them, struggle with them, start bringing them out into the daylight. I think Pema Chodron speaks well about these messy parts of us. It's also an ongoing dilemma for me as a writer - will people keep reading if I describe the innards of this dead animal? How much darkness (how much of my darkness) can people take? I wonder if this is something that ever crosses your mind, Beth, when you are writing about your father-in-law?

Oh, definitely. And blogs are different from books, they aren't one-off; people visit a place regularly because they like what they find there. I know some readers come to the Cassandra Pages because they receive a feeling of solace and calm, and I worry sometimes about scaring them off! But I'm totally with you, Fiona, in being more interested in truth than beauty, in its usual sense. We can learn to find the beauty in everything, even decay and death, even struggle and suffering. For a long time I thought the Buddhist idea about duality was that we couldn't see one side of the coin clearly unless we also saw the other: "for the moon there is the cloud," -- so suffering exists to make us appreciate non-suffering. But I've come to see that's not really it: the point is to face and even welcome difficulty, ugliness, pain because they have a great deal to teach us, and avoidance doesn't work: misfortune comes to all of us eventually so we're better off to learn how to deal with it. I like it that your small stones acknowledge reality. It made your book much more meaningful -- and beautiful -- to me!

Thank you. And yes - it is a challenge - and that reminds me of the process of editing the book. I had three years worth of 'stones' to choose from, and a lot of them just didn't do it for me on re-reading. It's as if I hadn't quite managed to translate the feeling of 'ooh!' or 'look at that!' into words. Or maybe it was a combination of a failure of SEEING freshly enough with not being able to find the right fresh words. I'm thinking of Suzuki again as I use the word 'fresh'...

"Even though you read much Zen literature, you must read each sentence with a fresh mind."

Even thought we often see the moon, you must look at the moon each time with a fresh mind! Or try to, at least... I'm glad the suffering made the book more meaningful to you, Beth - it feels heartening to me - that at least you are willing to hear about the poor fox on the roadside, or the troubled boy in the coffee shop. I suppose, going back to Zen again, we also contain the fox and the boy, and so it is also as if you are able to hear about those dark places in me. Having said that, light and fluffy is also good sometimes!

That's so true! And I want to stress that this isn't a "dark" book at all; I get the sense that you're a lot like me in trying to see the beauty in everyday life, and that as we practice this kind of noticing, it starts to color our whole life - and become something that we want to share with other people. Fiona, I'm so glad we had this chance to talk.

Thank you, Beth - it's been so heartening to receive support from my colleagues, especially blogging colleagues. And I agree - I've gained such a lot over the years from 'pay-more-attention' practice that I'd love to spread the word! It's been a pleasure to have this 'conversation' with you.

Article: Inviting Solitude

I've just finished reading 'Journal of a Solitude', written by May Sarton in 1973. She writes of her spiritual and artistic journey, quietly and with a steady determination. Her intention is to focus on the times when she is all alone in her house, to try and get at her 'real' life.

If we are serious about being artists, or about being true to ourselves, I believe that it is essential to spend time alone. Only by spending time alone can we get closer to our own 'real' lives, our own 'real' selves. The world is so noisy - hundreds of people with different opinions, requests, and demands, the television, the radio, the babble of work, the internet, email, the phone… How can we begin to know what we really believe or who we really are if we don't give ourselves a chance to reflect on things without all those other voices ringing in our ears?

But being alone is easier said than done. First there are the practicalities - how do we fit in twenty minutes of sitting quietly, when there are three children to cook for, the gas bill to be paid, and the garden choking up with weeds? How do we explain to our partner that we know we haven't seen them all day but we need to go and spend half an hour doing nothing before we ask them about their day?

The second difficulty I find is that being alone can be an uncomfortable business. The first few minutes of a cup of tea in the garden can be blissful, but then I start to feel guilty about the washing up waiting for me inside. The first day of a week's space can feel luxurious, but then I start to feel a little sad, or bored, and would much rather go out with my friends instead. Being alone can be uncomfortable, because it gives us a chance to get in touch with feelings we may have been tucking away to one side. There's nothing to hide from, no-one else to focus on, and we may not like what we have to say to ourselves.

So why is it worth persevering? What do we get from letting the uncomfortable feelings arise, maybe writing them down, or simply experiencing them and not distracting ourselves? I can't tell you whether it will be worth it - to answer that question you will have to find your own solitude and see what happens. But I can tell you what I've gained from being alone.

I've got to know myself a little better. I've learnt that I'm prone to fill my schedule to the brim, and that this is not helpful to my creativity. I've learnt that I find it difficult to just 'be', and that 'getting things done' is something I use to avoid certain aspects of myself. I've learnt that sometimes I hugely enjoy doing nothing. I've been better able to reflect on decisions I've needed to make, and I've had new ideas which have led to new writing. Most of all, alongside the learning and the experiencing of feelings and the new ideas, I've been able to nourish myself - to give myself some peace. To give myself a chance to let go of old thoughts, to let the muddy waters settle. To rest.

If you're interested in what you might learn, start by creating a space for solitude today. Decide whether you'd like to set aside a short amount of time each day, or a longer length of time once in a while, or both. Think about what time of the day would suit you best. Where will you go? What will you do - meditate, write a journal or draw in a sketchbook, go on a fun trip to an antiques shop or a stately home, or just sit and let your thoughts run free? How will you stop yourself from filling this time back up again?

I'll leave you with a quote from May Sarton. Enjoy getting to know yourself.

"Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember nothing stays the same for long, not even pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."