An Unmistakable Sign of Winter

Two weeks ago, I wrote a post entitled, "Fall: Don't Blink or You'll Miss It." It was intended to be tongue-in-cheek, but by last week, hints of winter already hung in the air. At Starbucks, the palette was red and green as Christmas merchandise lined the shelves, little Christmas trees dotted tabletops, and "Marshmallow World" emanated from a wall-mounted speaker in a nearby corner. At least one radio station had already switched over to a a holiday playlist (with a second soon to follow) and snow was in the 24-hour forecast within a week of my original post. I could pretty much disregard all of those things (which is exactly what I was doing), except for one thing.

The fountain on campus has been turned off and drained.

I'm sure the forecast of snow had something (if not everything) to do with that, but that simple change screamed "Winter is coming!" more loudly than any of rest.

It also inspired a spark of regret. The fountain is my favorite spot on campus, and I didn't spend a single minute there this fall. I kept meaning to, but I was being productive, sticking to a schedule, moving on to the next thing....

...and the opportunity passed me by.

I don't know what it is about fountains, but they definitely draw me in. Fountains at the mall, the fountain on my own college campus more years ago than I care to admit -- there's just something peaceful about them. Maybe it comes from years of throwing pennies into the fountain at the Cherry Hill Mall as a kid and making a wish, or sitting beside the fountain at other malls as an adult when shopping became dropping, but taking a seat beside a fountain affords a respite. Time to relax, to focus on the water and the scenery.

To just be.

Perhaps that's another part of the twinge I felt walking by the empty, lifeless fountain. Even if the winter weather in the forecast comes and goes, bringing fall back in its wake, that time to "just be" is nowhere on the horizon.

Then again, is it ever, really?

Time to "just be" is time we have to carve out, time we have to make for ourselves. Whether it's sitting beside a fountain admiring the fall foliage or sitting on a sofa reading a good book, these times don't just happen unless we make them a priority. It's easy to point a finger at holidays, work responsibilities or just general busyness, blaming things outside ourselves, but those things don't reach out and steal our down time unless we let them.

werner22brigitte via Pixabay

As I type this, I can easily think of ten more things I should be doing, need to be doing, have to get done. And I can be productive, stick to a schedule, move on to the next thing...

...or I can carve out some time for me. I can't sit by the fountain again until spring, but I can take a step back, seeking rejuvenation instead of efficiency, if only for a few minutes.

Because once the fountain is turned off, the opportunity has passed. And there's nothing productive about a missed opportunity.

Taking Chances

As has become obvious if you've been reading this blog over the past several days, I spent last weekend at the Pennwriters Conference. I've been going to this conference off and on for a number of years, and regularly for the past five or six. It has always been a good conference, but in the past several years, it has morphed into a great one.

What's the difference between a good writing conference and a great one? For me, it comes down to two things: quality and variety.

Writing conferences attract -- or should attract, anyway -- writers of varying ability. In order to do that, they must offer workshops that appeal to both novices and experts. The only thing that frustrates me more than a writer who says "I've reached the point where I pretty much know all of this stuff" is when they're right. And it's easy to be right about this at a conference that lacks the right mix of activities. Fortunately, the Pennwriters conference wasn't that conference.

I've been writing for twenty years. Honestly, I don't read tons of books and articles on writing because I'd rather be writing than reading about it, but I do try to stay current. Yet every single workshop I attended last weekend left me with a takeaway.

Were there moments in these workshops offered by mere mortals where I was tempted to whip out my phone and check my email? Uh huh. And, on a couple of occasions, I succumbed.

Did I already know a lot of what I heard? After two decades, over a hundred articles and three published books (not to mention the unpublished ones), I should hope so.

But by attending the workshops and listening to the speakers, I found a nugget of gold in every single one. Some were veritable treasure chests.

In Monday's blog, I mentioned the importance of taking advantage of opportunity. The Pennwriters conference had thirteen editors and agents. Most of the ones I met were generous, approachable and unintimidating.

Although I had done my research, I hadn't intended to meet with any of them. But at the start of the conference, there were openings available in many of their schedules, and there was no additional cost for the pitch sessions. So I decided to take a chance, and ended up being glad I did.

Truthfully, it could have gone either way. When we take advantage of unexpected opportunities --socially and professionally -- we're taking a risk. Any workshop can be a dud. Or it can be the one that triggers a paradigm shift so cataclysmic that it leads to a creative earthquake.

But the onus is on the attendee. If you don't walk through the door with an open mind, ready -- better yet, eager -- to learn and take advantage of everything a conference has to offer, you're wasting your time and your money. Unless, of course, what you're paying for is merely a weekend away.

http://baneofyourresistance.com

In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that I skipped a few workshops -- one each day, to be exact. When I feel my brain approach overload, I know that I need processing time. Without it, my attitude shifts from "ready, willing and able" to "go ahead, impress me" -- a change in mindset that helps neither me nor the presenter. And so I need to take a breather, or perhaps a few minutes to begin putting all that I've learned into action. Those "home base" times allow me to recharge so I'm once again willing to take advantage of new opportunities when they arise.

Will you go to a professional conference this year? Will you go out on a limb, or hide among the trees in the forest? For me, the best conference experiences involve a mix of both.