Guest #Author @JamesDeVita on the Importance of Nothing Time

I first met actor, author, and playwright James DeVita when I was a scraggly four-eyed kid. My parents had taken me to his family play A Little House Christmas, and introduced me to him afterwards. He was the first author I ever met, and now I have the honor of presenting him to you here. 

River

I fish the rivers of Wisconsin every year. I’m a wader. I like to be in the water when I fish. I always fish alone. It is my meditation time. My nothing time. My favorite seasons are early spring and late fall. It’s very quiet then. No one is around. Desolate. The trees and sky can be stunning. Being a writer, one might think I get a lot of ideas during my hours on the water. Actually, the opposite is true. No ideas come to me while fishing. One can either fish, or think. If I am doing one, then I cannot do the other. I only fish artificials (lures), so there is a repetitive nature to what I do. Hours upon hours of the same exact motion of casting — over and over again – a sort of physicalized mantra. This takes up all of my thoughts. So although I don’t acquire any actual ideas for stories, the outdoor time is crucial to my being a writer. It opens me up somehow to larger ideas –- things that can’t actually be thought at that particular moment – but they can be experienced and just sort of taken in. They come back later as ideas. When they are ready.

 

 

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Step Out for Dawn

Waking up before sunrise has its uses.

For one thing, the house is quiet. When one is the mother of small children, silence is one of the greatest luxuries EVER. I can read, or write, or just, you know, stare out the window and see this:

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I wanted to catch more, but my sons woke early. Dammit.

Last night Bo begrudgingly agreed to wake up in time to handle the kids so I could go out and photograph the sunrise elsewhere. Out of town, among the fields, with a rustic barn, or maybe a bird. It sounded like the perfect piece of my life to share here–the glory of morning as it unfolds, the last minutes of silence in the world. (That, and I’m experiencing bad writer’s block on a nonfic piece, but anyway.)

So I go out. And find–

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–power lines. Curses!

The parks I hoped to utilize were closed off due to snow. I drove out of town, into town and out again, losing pre-dawn light as I tried to find one blessed stretch without those accursed power lines.

Found it.

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(Sort of.)

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Fine. I had to accept the power lines. But what about clouds? The sunrise earlier this week unleashed such incredible colors on the sky. The previous day was all cloud cover. Where the hell’s my painted sky?

Honestly? I chewed God out a bit.

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Yet I stayed. The trees, I think–they stood as living shadows against the light as it slowly seeped into my space.

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No clouds to reflect colors, but the colors came, nonetheless.

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I went back to my car to warm my fingers, and nearly missed it:

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It occurred to me as I stood, watched, pressed buttons: I had never watched a sunrise before.

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Color filled the expanse above my head and under my feet.

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But then, the trees looked like trees again. Cars found my patch of countryside and wouldn’t leave it alone. The world insisted I had to press on, return to reality and all its obligations.

Blondie needed a ride to school, anyway.

 

#Winter Roads

Traveled through the farmland to visit my friend Rachel (see “Roads”). Winter brings a harsh beauty to Wisconsin.

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The landscape dazzles thanks to snow and subzero temperatures. The first sunlight in days, too, and a clear sky.

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For some reason, this river refuses to freeze over.

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Silence holds the air, numbs fingers and lungs.

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I think of winter, how it halts life here. To press forward, to even breathe, is to struggle against Nature. I think of Rachel, whose progress has been halted by cancer’s return to her brain stem. She struggles to speak, to walk, to eat. She fights against that which Nature has planted in her. Twice. I think of her, and winter, and remember that the thaw has to come, and with it, life, and hope.

 

 

Firefly Night

 

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Photo from Reddit.com

I watch Blondie chase fireflies. Her first time up late and outside, she runs and giggles and squeals, “Hello there, little lightning bug! Hey, wait for me!” Few stars care to share themselves before the sun disappears, but Bo comes across Venus and Jupiter together. “The second star to the right!” Blondie tugs my hand and points beyond our world. “That’s where Tinkerbell and the fairies live. Can we go there?”

 

“In your dreams, Blondie, sure you can.”

“But I want to go for real.”

“I know, kiddo.” Magic’s for dreams and stories, I want to say, not real life. But she’s five. What does she know?

~*~

I am returning from the library in the next town. Biff and Bash have been living up to their names moreso than usual, so when Bo offers to handle bedtime solo, I flee.

The sun’s brilliance wanes. A thin haze rests upon the treetops. It is the first cloudless sky in days, and I wonder if I shall see some constellations before I reach home.

The stars do not bother. Too much competition.

Never have I seen so many fireflies at once. On either side of the road, from curbside to distant tree lines, slowly circling every corn stalk. Blondie would have called them dancing fairies. I would have agreed.

I find myself jealous of Creation.

Had I built this moment myself, in my head, I could stay in it as long as I choose. I could add more colors to the fireflies and the sunset. I could add a chill in the air to make it more comfortable. I, I, I. I wanted to be in control.

Stories allow that. I can revisit a scene from years ago and rewrite characters’ choices. Natures. Trim every unpleasantness away.

But where is the life in such manipulation?

At some point, I have to stop the fixes and simply let the characters go the ways they wish. I am tempted often to analyze what I’ve done: if I give it just one more go, I can get it right.

But will it really be “just one more go”?

~*~

We cannot see the ripples of consequence until after the stone is thrown. Some of us don’t have hope great enough to fill the palm of one hand; instead, we carry a pebble, a little nothing that could never touch another. Or, like me, some lumber about with a boulder that defines everything, everything we perceive ourselves to be. I aimed my boulder as best I could for graduate school, certain it would teach me the beautiful secrets of writing. Instead, I learned to hate it. It took years of postpartum depression for me to try writing again, and discover its power to heal. I can’t delete the dark thoughts I battled to reach this point. I don’t want to. Because I wouldn’t know, really know, who I am if not for those internal scars.

I still stare into that water sometimes, though, and wonder how much longer I should have held on to that damn boulder. What friendships I should have saved and not abandoned. Which hearts I should have sought and not ignored. I can stare, and stare…and miss the beauty of a hundred fireflies dance around my daughter.

So I do my damndest not to stare. Creators who watch nothing lose control of their worlds, and characters who immerse themselves in nothing can only drown. I am a mother of children who see me as the foundation of their world. I am a wife to a man who dared throw his pebble into the water at, of all things, the sight of me. I am a woman who wants to share her imagination with those who walk away from the water and enter the fireflies. Perhaps we will see each other amidst all the little glows, perhaps not. To miss the dance this year is not the end—one of the best miracles about fireflies is that they come back. Until then, we can look for stones to skip, and, when we’re ready, launch them across the water and make it beautiful. That, to me, is magic.