vivid just like you

happy 2012!

2012-01-12T19:27:00.000-05:00

I shall return!

I enjoyed teaching this fall, then enjoyed Christmas break with kids. Much to talk about.

Soon.

Denise

one last note from Eureka Springs

2011-08-15T11:24:00.000-04:00

I ran out of coffee beans two days ago when I invited Chere for a lunch of mushroom/cheddar omelettes, in the culinary suite at DairyHollow. Her suite has a practical electric stove, whereas my KitchenAid Dream Kitchen has a six-burner gas stove, pans, and everything a cook could wish for. So we cooked and brewed coffee, and sat in the wicker chairs talking—like it was my fabulous living room.

So today, I found some old ground coffee in the canister above the KitchenAid coffee maker, and it will do. Made a big bowl of oatmeal as my final “hurrah” breakfast (hours ago) and now I’m cleaning up the fresh cherries and blueberries. In a few minutes, I will walk to the Grotto Spring down the road, and the lovely silence of morning will be broken. When I return, I must clean and pack and look at the instructions for checkout and leaving. I will need to go downstairs to the office and talk with people. I’m surprised how much I long to keep this silence for just a few hours more, even after eight very quiet days.

What this writing residency has given me is just that: quiet, for reading and writing and hearing myself think, and a quieting of the soul. I’ve written dozens of pages, and I’ve revisited some work from the past few years. I’ve enjoyed research about cooking writers MFK Fisher and Robert Farrar Capon—I hoped to come away with a draft of a book about these two, but I’ve only ever written much about me and my life, so I’m still learning how to approach a long project about other people’s lives and work. I’m certain this is a problem I WILL solve, over time, and meanwhile I’ve been nurturing my love of the two books I’m comparing.

(I picked up a biography of Fisher at the library, and it told me some of the details I wanted to know about her life, but these details were stuffed deep into a veritable encyclopedia of facts and family maps and awkward reading. Okay, I invested a day and a half in that fat book, to find out three or four important things, but I’m saying it was worthwhile research.)

Some part of me wishes I could hold up a finished manuscript to show for this stretch of days, but the finishing will come later. This has been a time of renewal, a reminder of my calling to write. It’s been a rest, a Sabbath from my other kinds of work. A Sabbath from people needing me. Whatever I’ve accomplished or not-accomplished, I will return home restored by this quiet, clean temporary home, and restored by this vibrant little city in the hills.

I could tell you more about how much I love this town, but I’d better walk before the day heats up, and I’d better pack, so I can relax, read and write a bit more this afternoon.

Thanks for sticking with me, my friends. I will be far from the Ozark hills when next I write.

the long ride from Sleepytown

2011-08-14T14:39:00.000-04:00

My father could lift me like a feather, with his whisper, “go back to Sleepytown” lulling me. I mumbled about my teddy. “Your mother has it in the car.” In the car, then. Vacation, worth a smile before dozing.

My bunk was the back window of the sedan in a nest of blankets, my back against the glass, my teddy shading my eyes from the streetlamp. Next he would lay my older brother Burl stretched along the bench seat, already dosed with Dramamine and gone to the world. My younger brother David fit in another nest of blankets in one well beneath the backseat, with his knees propped up over the hump. When my parents settled into the front, David would feel the rumble of the engine through him, and he wouldn’t hear another thing.

And I could choose, as we left our driveway in the true Sleepytown of Farmland, Indiana. I could choose a delicious sleep, with the sounds of late night radio drifting in and out, or I could choose to concentrate hard on my parents’ quiet conversation—I was an excellent spy. Or I could watch the night stars once we were away from the lights of town. Every option seemed almost too good to be true, in the romance of vacation driving.

The romance would break when the sun began to heat the car, our limbs unable to stretch. By then we would be miles away from our humdrum lives, navigating by the spiral bound atlas, looking for a breakfast diner. The first day’s goal: a motel in Effingham, Illinois. We would arrive too early to check in, but my father could park in a shady spot and sleep while my mother took us to the swimming pool. By the time my father hauled our suitcases in, we’d be sunburned and water-logged and ready for a nap in air-conditioning.

On some years, day 2 included a tour of the St. Louis Arch, which I loved. On some other years I watched the Arch from the distant interstate, and I pined to return to its heights. Either way, we were bound for the Missouri/Arkansas border, to visit my Grandpa Ruby and Grandma Mae, in a place even hotter than Indiana in summer, and we needed to arrive by the end of day 2, so we could avoid more hotel cost.

for Chris Fredericks, wherever you are

2011-08-10T04:38:00.000-04:00

a sketch for the Farmland Elementary crowd.

Not only did he never give a straight answer, but Mr. Fredericks, my third-grade art teacher, could stun people to silence, send a shiver up listeners’ spines.

“Mr. Fredericks, are you married?” I only heard this question once.

“Her name is Captain Midnight. She is six feet tall and black as coal,” he ended with a whisper, eyes wide as when telling ghost stories.

The questioner was my bold friend Shelley, polar opposite of my shyness, but I witnessed the whole interchange. No one said, “So what do you mean by that? Are you really married? Is she African-American, is that what you mean? What is her real name?” No one said a word. Mr. Fredericks was perhaps five-foot-eight, but larger than life—or at least larger than life in my little town.

Up to that point I had not found anyone of the male half of the species to be even remotely interesting, with the possible exception of my dad, but that hardly counts, as dad was strong enough, handsome enough, and very smart, but very interior, so as a third-grader, it was hard to feel like I knew him. Dad’s a non-fiction kind of guy, an adult, and I thought all men were non-fiction kind of guys. Something about Mr. Fredericks spoke of a story, a mystery, an adventure. He would be a good pirate.

I will admit that it does not take much effort to “stand out” in Farmland, Indiana. No pirates there, under most circumstances. He embodied difference in a dozen visible ways— unkempt hair and a sense of style, beginnings of a beard—but on a deeper level, he was playful and funny, which added up to mystique, at least in the heart of a third-grader. My brothers admired him as much as I did, but I found Mr. Fredericks not charming, really, but rather fascinating like a well-written book. It was hard not to follow his every movement around the room when I was supposed to concentrate on my art projects.

Later, my brothers and I would try to fill in the back story of why such an unusual man chose to teach in a rural backwater—how did we get so lucky? One possible clue, better for a novelist than for a simple story-teller: Mr. Fredericks would kick the wooden benches in the art room with an imposing thunk when he felt he needed our respectful attention, and it sounded like the crack of a bat. He kept a psychedelic-painted wooden leg in the closet, a spare, with a funky dress shoe and sock. And he also had a temper, when provoked, and a bit of what we would call An Attitude Problem. On the other hand, if I was teaching creativity to the dusty children of farmers and factory workers in some poverty-stricken flatland town, I would develop an attitude problem on arrival. A missing leg, a temper, a country locale: I wonder if perhaps he was a veteran of the Vietnam conflict, an ex-soldier in the process of healing. The year was 1970.

When my mother, my brothers and I registered for classes and picked up our text books for the year, Mr. Fredericks was penciling lines on the huge art room walls, using an overhead projector with a stencil of a Mt. Rushmore for activists: Lincoln, the Kennedy brothers, and a face I found out later to be Martin Luther King. Note: he was drawing on the walls, as if people were allowed to draw on walls. Privileged sixth graders would assist in developing this Peter Max-style fantasy in vivid primary colors, beams of yellow light stretching over three walls. But I was in third grade, and I was in stunned awe.

Our art teacher could not actually draw, which is strange for an art teacher. He drew lollipop trees, a circle on a stick with no pretense of being tree-like. He was talented with graphics, block prints, large-scale projects. And he taught photography so creatively I still remember his crazy lessons, with characters opening doors and giving people black eyes to illustrate how film takes in light but actually turns black.

I do know Mr. Fredericks moonlighted as a freelance photographer, and that perhaps his real mission or real joy was to photograph children producing art. He offered my parents a candid Kodak slide of me, sprawling on a sidewalk on a warm spring day, tongue poking out of the side of my mouth in concentration, crayons strewn. The light was perfect that day, and we had started Art Class outside, Mr. Fredericks with a guitar singing, Ain’t a Gonna Study War No More. In the photo, strands of hair curled across my face, just as my mother would hate it, but just as it always did. There was a fierce look in my eyes, a force of will bending the page to some inner vision—I never noticed the sneaky photographer, never heard the click of the shutter.

One winter night as we viewed a slideshow in my family living room, the carousel stuck too long at that photo of me, and it bubbled and dissolved before our eyes. I was heartbroken, my last trace gone, along with the nicest photo of me ever taken. Somehow it seems fitting, though, a self-destructing trail, for the mysterious Mr. Fredericks. He would be in his mid-sixties now, and I wonder where he went next. Somehow I bet he never taught elementary art again, or at least not in a small town. I wonder where he ended up, if he is happy with Captain Midnight, if he still has a box of Kodak slides labeled 1970, Farmland Elementary, or if his copies, too self-destructed without a trace, leaving dust motes in the light of the projector beam, a little disappointment, and a little puzzle over what on earth really happened back there, anyway.

letter from the exotic faraway

2011-08-09T13:06:00.000-04:00

Good morning!

Isn’t it miraculous how traveling peels back the surface of ordinary life? Every setting, every minute feels new like a freshly-cracked egg, and just as liquid. Anything could happen.

I’m writing from my studio, my three-room writing paradise at Dairy Hollow Writers Colony in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. While I’m still taking it all in, Eureka Springs feels to me like a mix of Rivendell (Middle Earth, Lord of the Rings) and Madrid, New Mexico—maybe with a bit of Farmland, Indiana thrown in there, too. Everyone greets one another. People talk to strangers. While the writers’ colony is located in town, the space between houses is wild and wooded. From my living room porch, I watched a fox cross the street this morning, and I saw a deer on the way to church. Neither of them looked too nervous about my presence. Public walking paths travel behind old haunted inns, past the towers of Victorian houses, right through the backyards full of cliffs and healing springs with mythical qualities. Everyplace is uphill, both ways.

My home for the next week is “the culinary suite,” a pale green and cream living room/office, arranged around a rustic fireplace of local stone. My suite also includes a KitchenAid dream kitchen, with a six-burner stainless steel stove and an array of cobalt blue appliances. Surrounding the dream kitchen is a patio.

I arrived Saturday to an outdoor temperature of 104, so I unpacked and napped in the air-conditioning. (Folks here tell me this heat is not normal for this place—Eureka Springs is typically the cool and shady part of the state, a vacation hub in summer.) After walking through the crowded downtown in the evening, I found a small pub with a menu of “little bites.” The lettuce-shrimp wrap reminded me of Vietnamese summer rolls in Chinatown, and the olive tapenade reminded me of a favorite restaurant on Eastern Point in Gloucester, a restaurant my husband and I frequented many years ago—now long gone. Is it travel that knits all of time together into one story? Gloucester friends, one of the pub’s specials of the day was a lobster tail dinner for $65. What on earth can one do to a lobster tail to make it worthy of that investment? My little bites added up to $10.

St. James’ Episcopal serves Sunday brunch after church—eggs, fruit, and sticky buns from heaven. I met twenty new people who all love Dairy Hollow writing center, and they all wanted to know about what I am writing. I almost got to meet a retired author of Harlequin “super-romances,” but she was busy with the altar guild. (I am so NOT a romance-reader. This near-miss might be providential for her and for me. What is a super-romance? Anyone? Another of my writing companions enjoys a sub-genre called “cozy mysteries,” which include recipes. Who knew?) The church feels much like St. Mary’s Rockport, a place filled with artists and people who chose to live here instead of living anyplace else on earth. When I returned to my studio, I worked on research, journal writing and just catching up with myself. Went back to the pub for lettuce shrimp wraps and tapenade with my two colony compatriots—shared a bottle of wine and talked about our work. A nice introduction.

Then I hunkered down yesterday—all the world was waiting for rain to break this miserable heat wave. Spent the morning writing, reading, researching. Spent the afternoon finding a ride to the grocery store (good coffee, rice crackers, juice, pinot grigio). After my first Dairy Hollow dinner, more work and a little knitting. It took me a few hours to realize how silent this place is, aside from the cicadas, and to remember how much I love silence and solitude as a respite from my regular day-to-day life.

The rain came in the evening, pummeling, pounding, an all-night deluge. I woke to 72 degrees, outside—my online weather forecast said the cool temps would only last an hour, so I found the shortcut path through the woods and walked downtown. Most stores are closed on Tuesday and Wednesday. So I’ll make a date for the yarn shop tomorrow. Meanwhile I returned drenched with sweat from walking uphill both ways again.

Later this week I’ll tell you more about the project I’m working on. For right now, the temperature is climbing again, and I’m watching the butterflies on the porch. I tossed this morning’s coffee over ice and I’m sitting with my feet up on the hassock, my stack of books, and my notes. This time is a gift, and I’m enjoying myself and enjoying my work greatly.

Denise

from the corner of Birdsong and Windy River

2011-07-13T09:25:00.000-04:00

Dear friends,

Happy summer to you!

My writing desk faces north over the Eagle Hill River, where I see the clam-diggers are parked on the point this morning. I’m situated on the second floor, with large maples shading me to the east, with vistas to the north and west.

The marshes flourish, grasses of chartreuse-green along the river, a bright contrast to the deep green of our lawn and the trees. Sometimes the birdsong threatens to overtake me—beginning at 3:30 a.m. rising in slow crescendo through six a.m. Then we adapt to the ongoing symphony, and even the cat sits to watch the mourning doves on the porch rail. At the end of the day, I know I should get to bed early since the birds will wake me repeatedly, but I love the night sounds, too, and I wait for the summer heat to relent a little. The house is uniquely unsuited to air conditioning—odd windows, few doors. But we are uniquely situated to catch any breeze.

Breeze, birdsong, spectacular views: am I painting a picture, here? I don’t know if I need a larger writing desk in my corner perch in the master bedroom, or if I need to go hide in the basement to get some work done—like Annie Dillard covering the window of her cinderblock writing cell. So far, I’ve indulged myself in the beautiful world with only a little self-discipline for my writing. This past year has been so very hard (the move, the loss of hope about buying a house, the long wait to hear about my adjunct teaching position). I am soaking up the beautiful world like a balm, reading books to feed my writing life, helping kids adapt to our new neighborhood and our new town.

I pulled together a ragged story for The Glen East Workshops in early June, where I studied with Scott Russell Sanders and a room full of talented writers for a week. In a writing workshop, each writer brings 20 pages, and we discuss each story around the table: what works? What prevents the story from working as well as it could? Watching SRS draw out insights and form mini-lectures from the content of these stories—that was well worth the investment of time and money to attend these workshops. My stack of notes will help me root out any traces of self-indulgence, and to clarify some confusing sections of my story. I highly recommend Sanders’ A Private History of Awe, and you can find some of his shorter works on the website of Orion magazine.

While staying at The Glen Workshops, I roomed with Andi Schrader, a woman who is dear to me from a dozen different points in my life. We lived in a dorm, ate in a cafeteria with endlessly fascinating conversationalists. Throughout the week, I drank in the readings and lectures by SRS, by Brett Lott, by Gregory Orr and Sara Zarr. And by the end of the week, I was enjoying the artwork Andi created in her calligraphy class with TimBotts, and the galleries of art created by the fiber arts and figure drawing classes. I haven’t even touched on my phenomenal classmates—this post would go on forever—but I’ll say that Justin McRoberts was in the room, and AmyTimberlake, and Jan Vallone was nice enough to give me a copy of her memoir.

In the past, I’ve been lucky to attend four Glen West workshops in Santa Fe, in conjunction with my masters program, and it’s a delight to be a part of the very first Glen East. It does me good to take my writing vocation seriously, along with other writers who me seriously, too. I will continue to mull how “the Glen” --the community of people working hard in the arts, wrestling with questions of faith—makes my life sane and rich and solid. I’m not sure words can frame this yet. And I'm still asking myself how my picture of The Glen is shaped by people I didn't see this time: I missed the SPU MFA crowd, and the Overstreets, and the Huppert-Volcks and the Guslers. And Mary and Nancy and Ann and Allison. I send unending thanks to IMAGE for hosting the Glens, all of them.

During the rest of my summer, I will teach conversational English for three weeks. Then I travel to Eureka Springs, Arkansas to accept The Duncan Eat/Write Fellowship for 2011—my award is two weeks of writing time in a private studio, and I’ll tell you more about that, soon. When I return, I’ll be preparing for my professor-life and I’ll be traveling a bit more with my family. A full summer.

I need a second cup of coffee, friends— the breeze is sweet and cool, and I’m so glad to emerge from the heat wave. Scott went to work hours ago. Kids will continue to be draped across their beds for another hour or so, and I must dig into my journal with a pen. I’m hitting send, and not editing. You have a good summer, too.

Denise

snippets from journals past

2011-05-09T13:52:00.000-04:00

Hello, dear readers!

We moved. I didn't forget you-- okay, I kinda forgot you in comparison with all of my other obligations. I've taken to writing by hand, as often as possible, which makes it more work to find my blog-post pieces. I am digging through journals, now, finding paragraphs for a long essay about moving.

Found this. Thought you'd might like it. I'll keep looking for more.

Every day that passes brings a touch of nostalgia, not for this outgrown nest of a home, but for the ghosts of childhood past, for the images of childhoods fully lived, here. Already Brendan’s workbench sits abandoned, much of the time. When we bought it at a yard sale, how he loved it and how lucky we were, happy with our ten dollar investment, happy for a place to park his handsaw and his hand-crank drill. When we returned home, the workbench was wedged between the stove and the washing machine in the kitchen. I tacked a child’s apron to the front, to cover the storage area below and to provide pockets for cat treats.

When we move, he may find he’s outgrown the bench entirely. We will prop it up on blocks, to raise it to the right height, but I will miss its presence in the kitchen, where we kept one another company, each at our own work, him with his hammer and paint, me with the flour and the rolling pin.

A childhood passes. And one half of motherhood passes—not nearly all, and perhaps not nearly the hardest part.

luggage

2011-03-29T13:13:00.000-04:00

When I claimed Shelley Wallace as my best friend in third grade, it was because she was new, and somehow she never learned that I was considered a social pariah. She liked me, and we laughed, and it was wonderful. I didn’t care so much that she was popular, and she didn’t care so much that I was not. No one told me that basketball coaches move—along with their wonderful daughters—every two years unless they can produce a winning team. So at the end of fifth grade, Shelley announced her family was moving. I suggested that she lash herself to the bedpost and refuse to leave our town, but she shrugged. She’d moved before.

I didn’t move. I lived in the same house until my 18^th birthday and my graduation from high school, when my parents put the house on the market and bought me a set of luggage. By then, luggage was exactly what I wanted. I would laugh with my college friends when they said they’d “go back to square one,” which meant going home. I had no square one, and there was no going back to anything, anywhere. My mother shared a trailer in the country with her new husband, the trucker whose company I loathed. My father had moved on to his new step-children and their teenage dramas.

I could form a homey room from the sterile cinderblock walls of a dorm cell. I never traveled light—I carried everything with me. I became my own square one, forming my own path through college and summer breaks. And I was infinitely happy with my independence. Luggage: I was all about the luggage.

back soon!

2011-03-27T22:04:00.000-04:00

Hey! We moved! Sold the condo, packed up our stuff, hauled it to the new place-- all while enduring several blizzards, weeks of freezing rain, several high water warnings.

So the new place is full of boxes, somehow. The light is (once again) spectacular.

I'm writing about this moving process, and I'm unpacking stuff as best I can. I will post more, after we catch up with ourselves.

Blessings to you.

sick house, take two

2011-03-01T10:48:00.000-05:00

She hates to be sick, more than anyone I know. She tells me today that she secretly fears she’ll die, like Beth in Little Women, so she doesn’t want to rest in the dark, by herself. I wrap her in a big hug and assure her she will wake, but if she doesn’t rest, she’ll be sick much longer. Life—this very hour—is so hard to let go.

And she can never sleep when it’s daylight, she says. I remind her she is saying this at 8:30 a.m., and she’s often slept past nine or even ten in the morning.

But that was different, she says. And I suppose that’s true. Still I walk her into her room and set her up a little nest, pulling the dark curtain, kissing her on the forehead, and shutting the door.

Her brother is an excellent patient: he sleeps until the sickness is over, and he does not fight it. This illness took five hard days of recovery for him, with rest. I was unpacking and cleaning the house, and he was no trouble. I resign myself: she will require a week of care, too, and my work will be set aside. I wouldn't trade her care to anyone else, this morning.

The day is so striking, gorgeous blue and clear after yesterday’s downpour and gray. I slowly trace out the steps of my breakfast dance, knowing she hears me set the skillet on the stove, light the fire under it, gather the saucer. I'm still learning my way around, calculating where the cooking utensils should go. I don’t dare check on her—she will throw me a list of cranky complaints, and wake herself up all over again with protests.

After breakfast, my phone rings and I head upstairs to my writing corner. I listen for her footsteps, poor girl. She was just home for a week with February break, and she was hovering near boredom. She resents this flu for taking her away from her school friends.

I’ve written so little. Moving—I’d forgotten how this feels, how unsettling it is to un-settle from one dwelling, how long it takes to settle in another. I wake happy, every day, to look out the window and see for miles, or to examine the fog. I wake rested—the new bed is a good change. And I wake hungry for this hour or so of quiet.

So far, no sound of stirring below. I will sneak around quietly and make coffee, and see if I can dig into writing a little more.

two months of cardboard, transition and joy

2011-02-26T14:15:00.000-05:00

On December 23^rd, I found an ad for a house rental on Craigslist. I was looking for something else entirely, but I knew the name of the realtor who was showing the house. I phoned at 9 p.m. and set an appointment to see the house at 9 in the morning, on Christmas Eve. As soon as we opened the door, we said yes, and drove home hoping our deposit check wouldn't bounce. We celebrated Christmas, saying nothing to the kids. We signed papers to sell our condo, three days later. And I started packing, first, and buying stuff on Craigslist: bookcases, a sofa, a bed that can fit up a spiral staircase, a five -dollar push-reel lawn-mower, a four-drawer lateral filing cabinet, a free skee-ball game.

Our lease began on the first day of February, after weeks of heavy snows and storms, after my weekend with the stomach flu. I painted for the first two days. Scott rented a truck for the weekend and hauled furniture and boxes through the snow, while I fed children and helped keep them to as normal a life as possible. Snow days (three), and kids home with fevers (five days), and then me, down with a respiratory flu and 104 degree fever. Then an out-of-town speaking engagement in Pittsburgh, February 17, 18, 19.

I returned to February break and a blessed mix of moving-in and laziness. We have ROOM!

Each day I wander around with a box, finding the right home for objects I may not have seen for a decade or so. Today I found my poster collection from my days as a college residence director—20-some years ago. Concert posters from Dan Fogelberg, John Micheal Talbot, and an opening-night poster from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Prints from museums, of Tiffany windows and Monet paintings. Another life, all of it. I will take photos, then most will go to the burn pile.

After the poster box came a box of doll-house furniture, all rejected by my children now. Somehow with this move, we have left an era behind. We are in the teen years, now, and I don’t know where the stuffed animals will go.

I noticed yesterday that I’m itching to get my writing desk set up. I’ve built a homework desk for everyone in the house but me, and I will need to concentrate on my own little nook, soon. While I don’t have a dedicated writing room, mine is a nice corner with a view.

Not bad for eight weeks of work! We have a burnt orange living room with purple furniture (it looks GREAT!), and a purple kitchen with cabinets worthy of a bonfire. We have a red woodstove in the den and Bonanza-style wood trim from the 1970s. We have a whole-lot-of HUGE in all of the rooms.

I will tell you more as we go. For now, we’ve made the move and we are charmed by the wind, the views, the sunlight, and this funny-enormous house on the marshes.

the new view

2011-02-25T10:44:00.000-05:00

We will be trying to snap a photo that does justice to our view from our bedroom window. So far, the beauty remains ethereal, but we will keep trying.

winter rose sky

2011-02-03T17:00:00.000-05:00

A pair of boys are playing nerf basketball in the bedroom, and I hope no one gets a concussion from all the possible hard surfaces. The dryer drowns out most of the thunderous footfalls, and I’ve not yet looked to see if my downstairs neighbor is home. Me, I’m sitting in my comfy chair watching the last-of-the-last of the sunsets over Gloucester Harbor. Pink winter sky paints alpenglow on the snowy rooftops and house fronts across the water, and the windows across the way flare with gold. The prettiest light, today.

More than ever, the condo is full of things that need repair or cleaning or sorting or just packing. My hands are spotted with white latex paint from my morning move-in project, and I need to a) figure out dinner and b) figure out what to wear to a play tonight, with a gaggle of 7^th graders.

Pink turns to that blue-lavender, periwinkle edged with magenta. Why is there only one grey gull out there tonight? The rest must be napping.

Tomorrow, I paint again. Then I lead my last class on “recycled wool garment design for sixth-graders,” then I throw myself back into The Big Move.

The sky is still beautiful, though the light will go fast, now. I wish I could sit here longer.

The next place is beautiful, too. Nothing like this view I’ve been watching for 13 years. But truly, truly beautiful. I’ll write you from there.

The Book Club at TheHighCalling.org

2011-01-17T09:03:00.000-05:00

I can’t offer a close read of five chapters, today, though I may do so later in the week. For now, I want to quickly paint for you the difficulty of discussing four or five stories per week from The Spirit of Food:

Chapter 2: I’ve eaten October tomatoes at Brian’s house.

When I first walked into Brian’s house, I spied a pan of steaming bruschetta, fresh from the oven: little rounds of bread topped with yellow and red tomatoes, smelling of olive oil and basil. We’d been eating at restaurants for days, on the road. My children and I were on a long October road trip, from Boston to Pittsburgh for a wedding. My husband Scott drove with us to that celebration, then he flew back home while the kids and I traveled further west toward my dad’s house in Indiana.

Sometimes a visit “home” tears me to pieces. “Well we’ll put you back together as much as we can, then,” Brian had said when I planned the trip. “And we’ll probably enjoy doing it.” We stayed for one night before visiting my hometown. And we stayed another night before the long drive back to the coast. I overheard an earnest argument between Brian and his wife over who was getting more time to talk to me. They played my favorite music on the stereo, just by guessing, and they plied me with wines from Wendell Berry’s vineyards. To be “at home” while traveling—I found myself near tears, eager to soak up their hospitality. It wasn’t my last visit. The next time I brought my husband Scott, so we all could be charmed.

I saw this essay in process, long before I knew of any food book. I can see Art, with the thumb’s worth of dirt above his brow. I love how beautifully-edited the story is, now. I suffer good-family-envy when I read the story. And I also see the marketplace, the faces of the people who greet Brian on the street, his vibrant wife, the backyard garden.

Chapter 3: Jeanne has a magical voice. Go listen to it on the Image Journal website!

I love how her prose sounds exactly like how she speaks. I’ve been through an ugly church breakup, and I’ve seen how some non-religious communities feel a lot more like communion than some churches. I feel like I’m with her.

Chapter 6: Robert Farrar Capon is one of the true loves of my life, and I say so later in the book.

Chapter 9: Someday I will tell you how I came to be a part of this book.

Chapter 11: When I met Alissa, she was just entering the health crisis that would challenge her way of eating, but you wouldn’t look at her and say “crisis.” I saw her shinny up a tall lamppost in the pouring rain—the lamp shone all night, and we’d all been complaining about it. She covered it with a garbage bag. While climbing, she wore a long knitted duster and her cat-eye glasses glimmered. She looked like a superhero to me, when she returned dripping, triumphant. Last summer I heard Alissa read this essay aloud for her graduation from the SPU MFA program.

Chapter 12: Nancy Nordenson read this story in a small circle of friends in a hotel room, after a day at the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing. I realized, then, that she’d experienced this disaster while we were both in Santa Fe—she, for her last graduate residency, and me for my first. I had been so wrapped up in my own life as a new student, I knew nothing of what she endured. I continue to admire how she weaves stories together. Such a rich thinker! See her story in Comment.

Chapter 14: Kirstin was the first editor who accepted my work without knowing me in person. She wrote such a glowing letter of recommendation for me—I carried it around in my journal for years.

This is how The Spirit of Food goes for me. I could keep numbering a paragraph or two for each of the chapters, each remarkable essay. I know exactly how lucky and blessed I am to have my writing included in this collection. I think Brian said something like, “I will hope to live up to this.” Yeah. The Great Cloud of Witnesses, that’s what I sense when I read the book. We are all—those who write, those who read, those who eat—so deeply blessed by Leslie’s editorial vision.

january

2011-01-05T12:51:00.002-05:00

Thank God, Thank God, Thank God and without thinking too hard the words ring out through my condo, Thank God Almighty, free at last.

I step onto the chair and onto the kitchen counter. I grab one handful of cookbooks, and a second handful, dust the tops and place them into the box waiting on the counter. In goes the waffle iron, clean from our Christmas breakfast, and the ice cream maker ball.

I will not eat from you until you are in a new kitchen.

And the books are tucked in, and the lid is fit on: I have packed the first box. I take a moment to dance and sing.

Early on the morning of December 24^th, Scott and I met with the owners of a rental house in the town where we hope to live. When the doors opened to a wide hallway, both of us grinned—the place is so NOT perfect, so different from the homes we’ve been looking to buy. And we liked the place. And it seemed huge, in comparison to our condo. We signed a check and left in a daze. We’ve leased a house with enough space for us to live.

My glee is tempered by the expense of rental, and what could be a free-fall into permanent status as renters, not home-owners. I can’t get purely excited without reminding myself of the risks.

On the other hand, it is morning of the first day, and I have packed the first box. We are moving. We are moving.

yarn-making

2010-11-27T10:12:00.000-05:00

butternut

2010-11-18T11:14:00.000-05:00

One butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cubed. Two butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cubed. Cecilia asks me if I’d like a different chore and I say no, I’m in a groove now. The French knife takes off the fat end of the squash, a perfectly round bowl of seeds and pulp. Slippery skin the color of cream, tough, and firmly affixed to the fruit of the squash. First I scoop the seeds into the compost bowl, then I try to skim off the skin with the knife, then the vegetable peeler. Beneath the pale skin I find veins of green that run the length of the squash. I peel deeper to the pure orange flesh, then slice off the bottom of the bowl. Slices, then squares and all the gold bits go into the large pan.

My daughter and Cecilia’s daughter laugh over their enormous pile of sweet potatoes, the peels to one side of the cutting board and the odd-shaped nuggets on the other. Cecilia sautés another five pounds of minced onion, along with a few pounds of celery and God knows what else. We discuss the price of organic squash versus the price of Trader Joe’s perfectly-good squash. She asks about my house-hunting and my teaching. I ask how her job is going, how her masters degree is coming along.

When I return to the thick stem-end of the squash, the squash nectar beads in a pattern along the cut end, clear orbs each catching the light. I lift the squash for a closer look and the pattern of bright droplets stays in place. Like lace, I say to the girls, or like dew on a spider web. They touch the droplets then taste their fingertips. They shrug and it's time to cube more squash.

But for just a moment, I saw it, the blessed secret of the butternut, the waters of creation, like lace.

sorely tempted

2010-10-20T11:41:00.000-04:00

And so it was that I looked upon the beautiful pink orbs, nestled in an old oblong china dish from Grandma Fern, and I weighed the likelihood that anyone in my family would notice the tomatoes missing.

No chance at all. I live in a world where the fresh food goes unnoticed until the packing of school lunches, the quiz in which I ask, “did you pack a fruit and a vegetable and a protein?” Yes mom, yes mom, yes. No mom, the apples and bananas are all gone. Scott buys them little disposable cups of fruit cocktail, and I would rail against the waste of money and plastic, but I’ve seen them open the wee cups and sip the juice, first, before tucking into the fruit. My children do not drink liquid unless forced, so I concede to the little wasteful cups. I too am fond of the papaya chunks. God alone knows what preservatives rest in there. I close my eyes to the issue: they drink, and they eat fruit. And they leave me the perishable items which don’t pack well.

Dear God, the tomatoes! The last tomatoes from the last farmers market of the year, heavy, not orange or red but pink, art-worthy tomatoes. Heaven forbid that they go bad, waiting for someone to find an appetite. On Sunday I sliced one for a sandwich of grainy bread, goat cheese, and basil. I ate two such sandwiches, leaving half the tomato next to the cutting board with a knife. No one touched it, despite my announcements. I found a container and sealed it away tightly in the frig, but it can't last, there.

I’m allergic to fresh tomatoes. If I stop at half a tomato, two sandwiches, the sandpapery sensation will be mild, like I burned my tongue but not badly. If I continue to nibble tomatoes, red fissures form as the result of my rich tastes, followed by blisters and several days with a wounded tongue. Cherry tomatoes, so easy to snack on, must be rationed, first, then hidden behind something else in the refrigerator so I don't grab another handful.

Andalusian Gazpacho is the tomato glorified, pureed with fresh bread and a touch of garlic. Not a Mexican gazpacho, not spicy, this soup is not home to any other vegetables, no peppers, no cucumbers, no onions. Just tomato, olive oil, a splash of vinegar, a pinch of sugar, and a few ice cubes to chill it. I remember the first taste of it, how ugly the color, how the soup stood up in the bowl at The Walnut Street Café in Erie, Pennsylvania. The restaurant didn't last a year, but the memory stays.

Today the whole glass of sweet gazpacho sits before me, two and a half pink tomatoes’ worth to be drunk slowly, rolling the summer in my mouth while watching the boats in the harbor. I walk back to the kitchen to scrape the blender clean, remembering not to stick my fingers under the sharp blades. Sorely tempted to find that one last spoonful. The blisters rise; I have accepted it.

Too often my solo meals consist of peanut butter from a spoon, or a handful of trail mix, now that green beans are not in season. Inelegant non-meals, anti-meals. The late summer lettuce is long withered, and I don’t know how long the fresh basil will hold out in my windowsill. How much more should I take the price of life and endure it? How much more ought I pour love into a glass and drink, despite the cost? Drink, while the season lingers for one more moment.

A toast, then, to the fall harvest and what comes next. A toast to the passing of summer fruits. I will remember these tomatoes for the next few days of sandpapery tastes and stinging, my last late-summer extravagance. I will not repent this tall glass, well worth the expense.

splinters

2010-10-15T13:27:00.000-04:00

"Lately I’ve been thinking, and I need to get this down quickly--that grief splinters…it splits off into fragments,… and that each of those fragments then has a life of its own. Every day is a new way to grieve, and this morning, very early, I was sitting in the attic window watching the rain and I tried to imagine even one of those splinters--could I hold on to even one? Could I contain it for a day, an hour? – and it struck me as a story that could be told in science fiction. A woman loses her brother, or her brother is lost, and every moment of every day for more than ten years she rises and begins to grieve, and the grief leaves her body in something like a cloud and goes about its business. "

Haven Kimmel, The Solace of Leaving Early, page 185

to wake up: same story told a different way

2010-10-15T12:02:00.000-04:00

Dear Reader, don't you already know everything about me? I rewrite, rewrite, rewrite and it all must seem terribly repetitive.

On the other hand, I like the odd twists I find in all the variations of the same story. So. Here you go.

If I grew up half-asleep to food, it’s because I grew up half-asleep to all my senses. I possessed no means to comprehend subtlety of flavor or construction of food. We opened cans. We ate in quantity. We liked our foods packaged, so the results were the same every time. Sloppy Joes, Hamburger Helper, Campbell’s Tomato.

I remember the first whiff of basil, age 25, still one of the most miraculous scents on earth. I remember the first taste of asparagus, age 20. I remember the first fresh bagel when my school drama team produced Fiddler on the Roof. Tabouli, that marvel of lemon and garlic and mint and bulgar—I asked the waitstaff, “but what IS it, in this dish?” French onion soup, amazing. The first cheese I liked, age 22, backpacking in Tennessee and just starving for protein. Smoked mozzerella, heaven.

Where had I been all my life?

The answer is quite simple: I’d been in my home on a side street of Farmland, Indiana. The food we ate was the food everybody ate, food from the television commercials, processed foods designed to make people’s lives so much easier. None of it was much better or worse than anything else. In a beautiful little town of tree-lined streets and quirky people, we lived by eating what the television told us. The television told us things all the time, and so it was always on at my house, and the constant noise level droned, a constant level of activity throbbed, a lack of quiet, a lack of social skills, a television-induced haze. No activity was much better or worse than anything else.

One Sunday a month my extended family of aunts and uncles would meet for a giant noonday meal at my grandmother’s house, fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, peas in cream sauce, or chicken and homemade noodles and apple pie. Grownups would eat until the meal required recovery; clean-up would require hours, practically until dark. No television could be watched unless there was a very good reason. It’s not that we didn’t notice the qualitative difference between the food in grandma’s kitchen and the foods in our own—we’d practically wrestle over the rights to certain precious leftovers. But no kid expected her own mother to produce such ambrosia: that’s what grandmothers did. That’s why grandma’s meals were special. She didn’t eat foods from boxes or cans. But then, she was retired, and she lived alone, and she obviously prepared for hours, which is something no mother could really do. Not really.

When I left home I went directly to college, where the food was different but not necessarily better. Nothing was much better or worse than anything else.

After my freshman year of college I took a summer job in the Colorado Rockies. My boyfriend taught me to forage for blueberries and salad greens. My roommate crafted vegetarian Dagwoods for me, introducing me to avocado, sprouted grains, hummus. I met adventurers who questioned everything about why we wear what we wear, why we live how we live, why we eat what we eat. I took a course on backpacking cooking, where I discovered a recipe for Wheat Thin crackers, and it occurred to me that every food in a box was developed from some recipe devised by some person in a kitchen. Even the local restaurants featured their own blends of iced tea. Without a television indicating what was “normal” food, I made the break from my sleepy world: some person in a kitchen could make Wheat Thin crackers, and that could be me. I was no cook, but I loved to experiment. I’d find whole wheat flour somewhere. That could be me.

When I returned home to my mother’s house I tried the experiment: homemade crackers are utterly delicious, almost precious, and not much harder to bake than cookies. I returned to college, with a jar for alfalfa sprouts and a keen determination to eat more whole foods. To eat whole foods, one must commit to curiosity. Still years away from my own kitchen, the curiosity arose.

What did I wake up to? Thinking back, I woke up to the great experiment that is eating, first, and I woke to the oddity and wonder of how food is crafted, what kinds of lives people live in their kitchens. I still thought my grandmother’s skills were untouchable—she cooked without measurement, by texture and scent, and those skills cannot be easily taught. But I possessed the recipe for homemade Wheat Thins, and if that recipe could be mastered, who knew what else I could learn? If blueberries really can be found, for free, under the leaves of low shrubs in July, and stonecrop makes an excellent salad, and honeysuckle nectar can be sipped, what else does the world hold for the person with eyes to see and ears to hear?

I woke up to the world, to every good thing. I woke up to myself.

wear armor

2010-10-11T09:37:00.000-04:00

The finished essay takes on a different tone than this snippet. But it's fun to re-enter the writing fury of my early drafts.

Driving over the bridge toward Cape Ann, you should cover your heart or wear some sort of armor. Do not be deceived—it’s a dangerous place. You will likely be assaulted by some corner of your heart you never noticed before. The sea will call you. The waves will not let you sleep. The gulls will charm you with their constant voices. The smell of salt is not for inlanders—perhaps you should pinch your nose and not let the air in. But you can’t prevent it. Within minutes of arriving you will no longer be satisfied to be near the Atlantic, if you could be close enough to see it with your own eyes.
Do not adjust. Remain firm. Do not swoon.
It’s hopeless, isn’t it? We come here from suburbs and dry places, brown places, conquered flatlands with orderly grids of roads. This place is madness, full of siren song and rough granite. Lash yourself to the masts and plug your ears with wax.

How do I say what I didn’t know? I was a 28-year-old series of Chinese boxes. I’d never paid rent, never shopped for an apartment, never paid an electric bill. I came from the Midwest, a flatlander easily lost. I owned a car with stickers from Erie, Pennsylvania and license plates from Washington state. I’d never been A Neighbor—I’d been THE Neighbor, running college dorms for six years, and managing a small conference center over the winter. I’d been living in one sort of Christian community or another for ten years.

youth group

2010-10-07T11:05:00.000-04:00

I am searching my files for stories to workshop, and as I search I find the most interesting little fragments, like this one. I wish it wasn't so hard to tell stories of churches and leadership without the modern-day shadows. I found my way into a good church, truly good, though made of sinners like every church.

As a teenager I followed rumors of a new preacher in town, a man with long hair and bell-bottom jeans, a man who played guitar on the church lawn and played loud music from the parsonage. A cute boy named Dale could sometimes be found at that church, so I showed up, sat down, sang for an hour before I remembered Dale—he didn’t come. But I didn’t leave. I wore bell-bottomed jeans. I had long hair, too. And I loved to sing. Adults spoke to me as if I was interesting, as if they knew nothing of the long history of my family in this small town. Adults cared about me, even though they were not my school teachers or my relatives. I stayed. The place felt miraculous.

I didn’t say a sinner’s prayer or make a public conversion. I’d attended local Vacation Bible School and the children’s Good News Club, and I liked this Jesus character as long as the church members actually loved, instead of hating people who go to movies or wear makeup, like the Baptist church down the road.
I was testing this new group of people, to see if they believed for real.

a possible plan for my blog

2010-10-05T12:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Reader,

I have grown into a slothful blogger, and the more I focus on writing for publication, the more I neglect my faithful following here on this blog. It seems WRONG, doesn't it? To shortchange you, worthy reader?

At the same time, my files are so full of little fragments, false-starts but interesting ones I could follow up later. Today I'm thinking I'll post some fragment of writing every few days, and perhaps you can think of it as a prompt for your own memory, or a writing prompt. God forbid that anyone important should stumble onto a blog of unfinished thoughts and think that's all I can manage.

But then, that's kind of what blog posts are, no? Thoughts in progress?

Tell me what you think of my idea.

Denise

growing up to food

2010-10-05T11:39:00.000-04:00

A piece of my cooking writing was just published, and I'm musing over the irony. A fragment found in my files:

I didn’t learn to cook as a child because cooking was too big for mere mortals, and a person needed to be legendary to don the apron and set her hand to the rolling pin. The people of my household ripped open bags of chips, served with chilled glasses of CocaCola, and when hearty food was needed my mother crafted biscuits and a skillet of sausage gravy. She liked breakfast foods. She liked to fry chicken. She liked to make potato salad—and that was about it. That was the short list of what my mother liked to cook. My father liked to cook popcorn—that was his short list. Everything else came in a package or a box, or was topped with Velveeta.

I hope to launch a website with links to my writing, very soon, and it will boast my full name. Soon!

the quest for home

2010-09-28T10:41:00.000-04:00

In June I found THE house that will suit our needs best, located in the town where we hope to live. Ipswich is not far from where we live now, but the streets are safer for bicycles and roller blades. The high school art and drama programs thrive despite economic times. Our kids could bike or walk to school in Ipswich, or walk downtown for an ice cream.

In July, we gathered our house-buying team and placed a bid for the house. We were outbid on the same day, by people with a large chunk of cash and no property to sell. In August we found a buyer for our condo so we could be ready to look for another property. But every house we saw seemed a poor comparison.

Two weeks ago THE house came back on the market— the other buyer’s sale fell through, even with their large chunk of cash. We placed a bid 24 hours later. The bid was rejected: that decision took a week. We placed a higher bid one week ago, with a lower percentage of downpayment. And we were outbid again, after another week of waiting, holding our breath, begging for our friends’ prayers and good intentions.

I just heard last night, after a long day of teaching and parenting. My husband is numb; I am angry. But like the last time, no one lives in that lovely house yet, and anything could happen. We will watch and wait, ready in case of any change.

And we will look at other houses. We’ve already seen twenty, thirty maybe. All seem to be too small, or too expensive, or nothing to write home about. I’ve seen every sellable 3-bedroom house under the price of $400,000 in the city of Ipswich. I lurk on the real estate sale listings and Zillow. I feel like I know the city intimately, just from its real estate.

But the house we want is under agreement to be sold to someone else.

Who are they, these competitors? Do they want this home as much as we do? Surely they must. The last owners left an old-fashioned shingled mailbox on the post of the front porch, with a note reading “welcome” inside the box. Ragged rose vines climb over the entry of the sagging porch. Sweet old bird feeders hang from the trees and window boxes of faded pansies rest on the upstairs windows. Will these new owners clean the dear fishponds, or fill them? Will they keep the small planting shed my daughter has claimed for her office? Will they love the neighbors— Mary and Dave, Ellen and Doug— the way we would? Or will they live like everyone else in New England, distant strangers?

I was hoping to meet the neighbor across the street. Her Concord grapevines climb the trees of her yard, vines fruiting far up into the sky. I would love to grow grapes. I picked a few bunches that hung into my parking space, though I should’ve asked permission. I invited the neighbor kids to help me eat up all the raspberries, ripe and falling from the canes, by the driveway of my dream home. We ate until our fingers and our smiles were stained crimson. Surely those berries were a sign of fruitfulness, goodness, perfection. Surely we fit there, better than anyone else.

Some days I forget my long love for this condo where I live with my family, and it becomes merely the place I am stuck, the baggage I carry. I used to be so good, here in this condo with a view of the harbor. I have grown to resent every crack in the wall, every sill that needs paint, every scratch where we’ve been careless with our furniture. But mostly I resent our condo’s smallness, how we have no privacy. The ugly tree in the backyard needed to come down. Now all we see is the chainlink fence where the abutting neighbors hang their laundry to dry. Kids played in the parking lot for years; now the neighbors passed an ordinance that there is no bike-riding in the parking lot. The older neighbor kids are teens now, set loose on the city or focused on video games. Our kids have no one to play with here, and not much reason to go outside.

We moved here to nest babies, our treehouse above the sea. We have no more babies. We have kids who should be on bikes and on foot and exploring. For five or six years, we said, and my daughter is thirteen. We’ve been waiting for house prices to go down after all those years of rising. Now is the time. We watch and wait. Watch and wait.

I’m going to sit and watch the sun on the harbor for a few hours, this morning. Some ship across the way makes a sound like a distant helicopter—the same sound has been droning for weeks, all through the night, masking the crickets and peepers and gulls with the sounds of industry. But the sun and breeze, I would miss these even in the lovely dream house with the shade trees and the yard.

I will ignore the class planning still ahead of me, and the nagging “what’s for dinner” question. Leaves are tipped golden against the green, down below at the street level. God knows what we need, and today I need to give up for a few hours, and wait.

And perhaps I should eat breakfast, too. I’ve been living on coffee, holding my breath. Note to self: eat breakfast and wait.

note from the first day of school, only two weeks ago

2010-09-21T12:50:00.000-04:00

The children run down the stairs to wait, while Scott hauls a teetering stack of school supplies down after them. Half a minute passes and thunder claps with a downpour. I’ve already poured the coffee and washed the table, ready for them to leave on the first day of school.

No child-drama this morning, thanks be to God. They must’ve worn themselves out with last night’s bedtime drama, tears and requests for water and the insistence of a light turned out, a light turned on, the door slightly ajar but not too much ajar.

The girl bursts in the door, remembering her violin for orchestra practice. She tells me her pants are already soaked through, but she smiles under the bright pink hood of her raincoat. She has new shoes, and she loves school without reservation. The boy would rather stay home with his comfortable books, and he is glum about change. But I bet something will spark his whimsy today, and he will bring me a story or two.

On my desk I find an origami water lily and a carefully forged signature of Minerva McGonnigal. I tuck Minerva into the collection of odd papers near the phone, and the water lily will keep me company.

The wash of rain is heavy, steady. I watch the bright edge of eastern sky disappear to gray, feel the wind wash through, and rush to close the windows. Not just a passing shower, then. Fruitful rain.

uncommon August

2010-08-25T09:40:00.002-04:00

Most years I dread August. Beastly-bored children languish and lash out at me, at each other. No one willingly packs for the beach because they’ve just been to the beach. We lock ourselves in with the air conditioner blasting, with dark curtains over the windows in our third-floor southern-exposure condo. And even with the air conditioner on, we feel as though we are roasting. We avoid any chores that increase indoor heat, so the laundry waits. We avoid cooking. We melt. That is August for us, most Augusts.

But now I am writing in the middle of a three-day cool rain, a steady downpour again this morning, a rain we need. I traveled to the Glen Workshops for the first week of summer in Santa Fe. My excuse was to see the graduation of the last of my writing classmates, but I went to find respite, to be with friends. When I returned, my family was house-sitting in a spacious, gorgeous home with a pool. Dear friends visited. Then I attended a three-day yoga retreat in the Berkshires, which helped with my achey back. We are now home again and it feels like I’ve vacationed for the entire month of August.

I can’t recommend rest enough. I can’t remember the last time I felt so deeply rested. This is the nicest August I can remember since my college summers in Colorado.

Now I’m off for my first day of teaching, in this fall semester. It’s work I enjoy. I wish you good fall beginnings, too.

unfinished note from mid July

2010-07-31T10:03:00.002-04:00

Each evening, I gather stalks of spearmint, and the last of the raspberries, and a handful of nasturtiums. The spearmint leaves, I stuff into a large pitcher of chilled water. The raspberries freeze on a cookie sheet. The nasturtiums fill a small pear-shaped vase for the table. For tomorrow. Before bedtime, I gather the frozen berries into a bag. I pour lemonade and juice into popsicle molds. The mint tea tastes mild, but it will taste even better tomorrow.

In the morning, I fill the old glass milk bottle with fresh water and two packets of hibiscus and passionfruit tea, and the tea trails red streamers through the pretty bottle on the windowsill as it brews. I hate to cook when it’s hot, and none of us likes to eat much. We live on cool drinks and ice.

Children are home for the summer-- home in earnest, now. Little League play-offs finished two weeks ago, and the first flurry of playdates has passed, along with our summer ambitions for projects and gardening. We slow to the molasses-pace of hot July days, days mostly too hot even for the beach. Children sleep late in the morning, then adhere themselves to the furniture—they adhere themselves with books, books, books, and I find it hard to complain about their love for reading. Brendan devises new self-powered competitions each week, races between marbles or plastic baseball caps or fantasy baseball teams, all on the living room floor. Madeleine takes up a sewing project or two, as long as it doesn’t require too much concentration. Brendan decides he will become a professional smoothie maker when he grows up, as well as a professional ball player. Madeleine cares nothing for growing up—but the paper dolls she designs look more like teenagers, these days, long necks, narrow waists, modest bustlines, short skirts. The child could not care less about her own hair, but she is picking clothes more carefully.

In the quiet hours while the children become reading-fossils, I am working to buy a house: filling out forms, gathering facts, checking with mortgage people and real estate people, making notes for Scott while he works.

I know we need to get ready to show the condo. We puttied the crack in the windowsill, Brendan and I. Madeleine left her chair to clean and organize the kitchen cabinets, which she loves to do because she can stand barefoot on the counter and examine the dark recesses. I will organize a top-to-bottom deep cleaning, soon enough, but today we remove the surface dirt from the stove and counters, and from Brendan’s workbench.

At some moments, I convince myself the whole house-buying process is a house of cards and surely all this work will be for nothing. At other moments I remind myself this is what financial life feels like for so many of us, and what it felt like for our parents and our grandparents. We will stretch ourselves and our resources and our hopes as far as we can. I continue to juggle my jobs as part-time nanny, part-time professor, freelance writer and summer mom.

I slip outside to water the poor withered lettuce plants, and the breeze cools the porch. Off with the air conditioner. We open the windows and doors to the fresh air, instead. I offer the kids popsicles, mango and lemon, and decide which glass of tea I’ll drink first, mint or hibiscus.

self-portrait with pans

2010-06-24T17:54:00.001-04:00

lucky me!

2010-06-24T10:56:00.000-04:00

Hey!

I've been writing for some publications this spring! I'm investing much more time in revision and polishing, and volleying notes with editors. Although I'm happy about these opportunities, I feel frightfully out-of-touch with you, beautiful readers.

So. I'm writing. If you know my full name, go ahead and Google it (don't be shy). I'm still not comfortable with my full name being here, on this blog, while I write about kids.

Anyone want to help me set up an author website, with links to my published stories? Like, anyone want to do ALL THE WORK for me and then let me okay the final result? I am SO swamped with work.

Meanwhile, it's a frightfully-hot day. The air conditioner is chugging, and fans are blowing. Girls have spread sewing materials over the entire living room, and Brendan is brainstorming his next sewing project, jealous of tools and feats of engineering-- the sewing machine is officially Madeleine's, though we all use it, just as the toolkit is officially Brendan's. Fear not, though, egalitarian parents everywhere-- Brendan also begs me to attend Knit Night with him, so he can work on his yarn projects. Merry is sewing right now. My favorite three-year-old will arrive in a few minutes. We can all hover near the air conditioner.

I hoped to post a photo of my new old-fashioned peasant blouse, but when I flipped on the laptop camera I screamed and ran at the sight of me: I look just like my mother. Time to go work some hair and makeup magic, now, even if I am entertaining kids all day.

Happy summer. I wish you a cool swim.

cold and rainy June day

2010-06-10T10:28:00.002-04:00

The misty rain comes as a surprise. My messenger bag is still stuffed with swimsuits and sunscreen from last week’s heat wave. I fill it instead with warm slippers and a sweater for the high temperature of 55 degrees, an illustration of June in New England. Perhaps the child and I will build a fire today while I’m babysitting.

Can my children’s school possibly end for the year? For their sakes, the time is ripe for vacation. No longer do they wake eager—they barely wake at all, sleepwalking through the grim mornings. The days stay light until 8:30 or 9:00, and a good night’s sleep seems impossible. Gone are the evenings when Scott and I had a few hours to ourselves. The blond ones grow taller, though not as tall as they would like.

A Wednesday passed yesterday, and I forgot to pick up Merry! I catch myself after thinking it: she is gone, graduated from eighth grade, away on her class trip and then moving to boarding school. She began spending one afternoon a week with us in her fifth grade year, four years ago. How strange, this leaving.

The children are ready for long lazy days with books, sitting in the window, playdates with friends. I will still be providing childcare for my favorite three-year-old, a few days each week, and I’ll be working for a travel agency, organizing trips. Organizing from my home? I can’t say yet. I hope so. Kids are growing more independent, but I can’t leave them for more than a few hours at a stretch, yet. A working summer will feel odd, but it might also have its benefits. Kids will need to leave their reading chairs to come with me to the office, now and then, and kids will not be left alone by a three-year-old in my care. They will need to build with blocks and race marbles and cars.

News: when I started writing, I sketched a story about baking a pie for my friend Hank. Recently I adapted that three-page story into a history of how I learned to cook and how I learned to eat. The story will be coming out in an anthology of spirituality and food writing, coming out in September. It’s been fun to work with several editors, to get the best out of this story.

I’ve also been working on two magazine stories, one on afternoons with Merry, and one on my current roster of work: juggling three paid jobs, two freelance jobs, and my unpaid work. At some point I’ll need to work up an official website with links to my stories. Soon? We’ll see.

Sorry I’ve been a sleepy blogger! I am posting this boring piece, written far too much in the passive voice, because my brother checks my blog approximately every day, and I’d better throw some news out there.

And now it’s time to pack up my messenger bag to go play with the little one on this chilly wet day.

on beginning a semester asking 18-year-olds to write about love

2010-05-11T13:52:00.000-04:00

A rant scribbled in my notebook in Starbucks, last September at the beginning of my first semester of teaching.

If love is so great, and love is what everyone wants, then why doesn’t everyone run out and give as much love as they can? If God has provided everything we need in this big gorgeous creation, and endowed us with God’s likeness and spirit, why do we fail to love? How could we? What prevents us from love?

A drop of oatmeal falls cunningly between the wires of the spiral notebook of my journal, and I can’t easily reach it without destroying my journal—my only journal handy here at Starbucks. Already I’ve drawn quizzical arrows, corrected spelling and in short I’ve broken the spell of that intense question from the class I’m teaching. In all likelihood I’ve broken the spell because I can’t bear another round of another day of confession of my sins of omission. How do I not love thee? Let me count the ways.

The oatmeal gives me something to do. I think of the box of tea to buy, here at Starbucks. I think of the beautiful faces I dropped off at the school door. I think of school’s opening assembly. I don’t know my own work schedule yet—I hardly know anything.

How do I reconcile love and parenting—brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, are those shoes too small? Really? That seems impossible—they are still so beautiful, so perfect for you. Except they are not perfect, now. Did I take time to kiss the girl-foot, before it grows into a woman-foot? Not today. Brush your hair. Pack your lunch. Don’t tease me for making a wrong turn, I need coffee… Three hours later the coffee has grown cool, and the brew I’ve chosen is bitter and dark against my favorite oatmeal second breakfast.

I love Starbucks. I love oatmeal. I love the classical music playing this morning. In order to love these students I need to go to Staples for a giant sticky pad, on which to write Shakespeare, Donne, Browning, I Corinthians 13.

An informal baby shower emerges in the small circle of cushy chairs: three couples, two infants. Packages of baby gear are sorted one-by-one. The group talks excitedly in a mix of English and some Asian dialect—I hesitate to guess. Rattles are demonstrated. Baby bottles.

How mercilessly easy it is to love infants—simply put aside all else, and pretend you exist only to make the child healthy, whole, settled. Only live for that smile. I cross the “l” accidentally and spell “smite,” good heavens. How they smite us with love, these small and delicate creatures! How motherhood smites the self for a few years, until there is nothing left but the stump of Jesse. How blessed are those of us God gifts to grow again, smitten, decimated, and ready for what’s next.

snapshot from a year ago: some things different, some the same

2010-05-10T19:13:00.000-04:00

Culling files on my computer, I found this abandoned post from last May.

Every few minutes I get up to restart the clothes dryer or answer the phone, to restart the music and try to figure out who turned it off? I’m the only one home—it must’ve been me. Where did the coffee go? I must’ve finished it earlier.

I’d like to be slightly unconscious because I am writing but in truth I am fussing, futzing, worrying, fretting over this thing and that thing. It seems like a month since I’ve started a new story, too busy revising my thesis to consider much else with my writing time. And the writing time shrinks in this month of May, full of school events and little league evenings and a precious few beach days, a few walks to keep me from becoming stiff, a few trips, blessed ones.

In July I will read a portion of my thesis aloud, on the day of my graduation, and I’ve known for six months what I will wear (a perfect dress, waiting in my closet), where I will stand, what I will read. The afternoon will be hot and rainy, as all August days in Santa Fe’s monsoon season. I was thinking yesterday, how I entered this masters program shaking and feeling certain I didn’t belong with these amazing writers. I was thinking how I leave shaking in a different way, knowing I belong but now I will need to live up to this masters program, to live up to the hope others invest in me.

And of course I am also shaking because I’d hoped to teach part-time at the college level, and the nearby colleges are eliminating adjunct professors just now, trimming budgets. I will need to work, but how? What?

I can’t worry because my thesis needs a little polish, and I have five more books to read, and kids will be home from school in two weeks. I must worry because we need a bigger place to live.

Meanwhile I found an ad on Craigslist: a woman is seeking a yarn-spinner to make two pounds of fiber into yarn. Two pounds of fiber fills two grocery bags, and might be enough fiber for a sweater. The fiber is dog fur, and several web-based companies offer to process “chiengora” dog fur at $10 per ounce—I might be able to do it for less, I can’t say yet. If processed at $10 per ounce, or $160 per pound… what grief brings a pet owner to this level of commitment?

I miss my mother. It’s her birthday next week and I miss her hard and furiously.

Funny, the teaching job worked out like a charm. The thesis was fine, as such things go. I've since edited half of those pages, cutting one essay by a third, and adding to another by a third, so those 100 pages offered good work-in-progress. And the dog yarn? I've spun two batches of it, and I hope to spin some more soon. The woman knit fur-mittens and felted them in my washer, thick firm mittens with a gorgeous tan haze like mohair.

spring schedule

2010-05-07T08:05:00.002-04:00

I chaperoned the middle school dance and the 4th grade trip to the wildlife sanctuary. (Wildlife sanctuary/Middle school dance= synonyms?) Wowed 3rd graders with my looms and spindles. Nurtured a toddler through a crisis over a puzzle piece. Introduced kids to chicken biryani and cheered when my kid snagged a grounder at second base.Taking my other kid to a wool festival to pet sheep. BRING ON MOTHER'S DAY!

Also: Edited a story and will submit it by 9 a.m. Wrote a fan letter to a writer who is new to me (read Valerie Weaver-Zercher's Philo-Lilac in Orion, this month, swoon! I'm sure some of you know her in person, but you really must read her.) Decided that I can start the new job next week, because a day off is okay, today. Really.

Have I mentioned this is the most beautiful spring I can remember? Early, warm, and such an embarrassment of green.

patience, dear readers

2010-05-01T12:47:00.000-04:00

I started to post a story last week, from my graduate thesis-- then I realized the thing was too intense and involved too many people I haven't checked with. (Sorry.)

I've been asked to finish an essay for an anthology of food writing, and I'm revising like crazy. I print a big stack of pages of all the ways I've rewritten this story, and I cut and tape and color code; then I rearrange, cut a lot of subplots, ask myself what's really important in there, and generally obsess, at length. That's what I've been doing in my writing life, besides filling spiral journals.

Will post some smaller snippets of writing, soon!

Lilacs are starting to bloom, and the sun is hot today, so off I go to the beach. Meet me there? It is surely time to soak up some sun.

Denise

view from the floor

2010-04-08T21:56:00.000-04:00

Some days the ease of my former life is almost impossible to remember, from my place on the living room floor. Once I hiked 200 miles in a summer, when I lived in the Rockies. I’ve never truly been an outdoorswoman, not like some people, but I hiked twice a week after work that summer, and I kept a log—it was easy. I curled up in bus seats in Colorado, in Indiana. I stretched out on airport floors and slept the sleep of the innocent, my head propped on my bag. I slept in the back seats of cars hurtling across the continent, happy with the funny curves and indentations and a bundled up sweatshirt as a pillow.

Another summer I climbed in caves with children and swung from ropes in the trees. I grew lithe that summer, unburdened by a desk life. Even when I nursed babies in my late-thirties, I preferred to sit cross-legged on the floor, because I loved the floor, loved being near the floor. I could settle anywhere. I propped my knees to one side in a cushioned chair at Starbucks, then shifted my knees to the other side, later, or dangled my feet over the arm of the chair, close to the fireplace.

Three years ago I broke a bone in my foot, a stress fracture, while walking. When I was working to recover, I damaged a tendon in the other foot, causing a nasty bump called a ganglion. I climbed trees, still, with my children. I played Frisbee at the beach, using the waves for resistance training. Then a year ago I slipped on a ledge of granite while hiking, slamming my hip against the stone and my face against a tree. I’m afraid as I write this that you will see me as an old woman—I am not. I have never been an athlete, but I’ve been the kind of person who could rise to an occasion. I’m learning to throw a football, for my son. I’d hoped to coach a softball team, someday.

In the morning, each morning, it seems I’ve grown into a hard pickle of a woman, or perhaps a turtle with a knotted shell on my back. I lumber to the living room and carefully lower myself to the floor with a book behind my head, like the therapist showed me. Then I loosen each clenched muscle group, starting with my neck, lowering vertebra by vertebra to my one hip, then the other. Sometimes I feel a vertebra untwist, loosening all the muscles with it, and it reminds me of pregnancy, of the occasional movement of a baby heel or elbow across the expanse of my abdomen—not only is the movement amazing, but the muscle release feels profound and I find myself once again at ease for a moment. When I rise to walk again, I wiggle my neck and shoulders, relieved. Sometimes the tension has returned by the time I sit down for my cup of coffee. Sometimes the bones of my spinal column continue to shift pleasantly throughout the day, letting go in ripples as I’m driving the car down the highway.

I am trying to take long walks again. What feels like a good walk may require days of recovery. All of me feels heavy, slack, bittersweet. I am learning again how to sit, how to walk, how to stand without stiffness. I will never again sleep in the backseat, it seems, or fold myself up into a chair with a book. I will need to pay attention. It is not much—some people suffer so much more than this. Still I want to listen to the cravings of my youth: I wish I could sit on the floor. I wish I could sleep on the ground. I wish I could move without worry.

When I am resting my back on the floor, I concentrate on breathing, and I pray, sometimes for an hour, sometimes more, the strangest and most urgent prayers. My eyes water when a muscle lets go, and tears fall into my ears, or tickle down my neck. I unpickle, unturtle, and pray to be more yielding from head to toe. Beloved floor, I wish I could sit here, cross-legged in the sun. Maybe someday.

one for pussy willows, another for forsythia

2010-03-25T09:55:00.003-04:00

One vase for pussy willows, and another for forsythia branches.

Sun streams in over the living-room-turned-infirmary, Lincoln Logs, board games, adventure books propped open and blankets, handkerchiefs, half-finished cups of tea. The boy agrees to a bath, if the water is hot enough, if he can use the eucalyptus suds, if, if, and all the requests are granted. I leave the half-emptied dishwasher, the sink full of dishes, the table a wreck of medicines. My first hour alone in days, and while I’m not truly alone, this is as close as I will get, this week.

I am on day seven of antibiotics, myself.

“Can I come out?” he shouts. I tell him to soak another five minutes. I just sat down. As close as I will get.

So, a quick note: I’ve been working to establish a writing routine, and jumping into a hundred fresh starts of writing. I’ve also been struggling and moping, adapting to the questions raised by freelancing, and I’ve been researching houses to buy or rent. I’ve secured a teaching job for the fall semester. I still need to dig out from the housekeeping neglect of the past two years, and I’m working at that bit by bit. I’m caring for the world’s most delightful two-year-old, two days a week, and she reminds me how good it is to live in the present tense, to shake off worry, to play when the weather is fine.

The five minutes has passed and soon the boy will emerge from the bath, breathing better I hope. I’ll check in with the doctor and I’m sure we will need to make an appointment, which will mean leaving the sunny house. I’ll finish unloading the dishwasher and with some luck we can both settle into some reading.

At least we have sun and pussy willows. The forsythia will bloom tomorrow, I’m guessing.

provision and grilled cheese

2010-02-20T12:20:00.000-05:00

Note from a few weeks ago.

I arrive home from a day of childcare. I call him from home, and he tells me our daughter’s team is neck-and-neck right now, so he can’t talk long. I hear the crowd sounds subside as he walks from the gymnasium.

“Can you please pick up one Chinese entrée?” He hesitates. We are short on funds this month, since my job ended in December. “Teething. My gal howled for 45 minutes straight. I am covered with snot and I smell like a diaper. My head hurts like I’m teething.”

He laughs and says yes I deserve Chinese food, yes, one entrée.

“It’s been a long time since teething,” he says, “She’s on the court now, and we are up by six points.” He tells me he doesn’t have the phone number for the Chinese place—I remind him Madeleine added the number to his cell phone. He’ll need to ask her to find it when the game is over. I agree to cook our own rice, to save a few dollars. Because every few dollars is a few dollars, right now.

I enrolled in a masters program three years ago, to pursue my love of literature and writing. I didn’t foresee any problems paying off my student loans—I’d graduate with a degree, I thought, and the parenting gap on my resume would look less glaring. I’d work, finally, in an area I love. When I completed my degree in August, I found adjunct work at a terrific college, a few minutes from my children’s elementary school. I taught two classes, my introduction to grading papers and teaching eighteen-year-olds in a classroom. I loved the work, and it took all my time until it ended at Christmastime.

And now I am free to do the thing I studied: I’m free to write. But I’m not free, as long as we struggle to pay bills. In some ways I am lucky: I knew my job would last four months. I haven’t checked in on my friend Dave’s job search. He thought he had his high-paying job as long as he wanted it. I haven’t checked in on Pete, who used to commute halfway down the coast for his work week. Lauren is happy to work on a consultant basis for awhile. These are people who earned serious money, and my adjunct work is small potatoes in comparison.

Are we all struggling? I assume most of us are.

I step into the shower to return to my own scents, to comb the toddler-gunk out of my hair. When I emerge from the shower, the family arrives. He doesn’t bring me Chinese food, not even one entrée. Kids needed to be home, he says, and I can see it’s true. He starts the grilled cheese sandwiches without asking. I eat mine with a bowl of tomato soup, then go to bed at 7 pm to sleep for eleven hours. It’s been a long time since teething.

Now they’ve gone to school for the day, and I have no childcare duties. Time to write.

the just-right thing

2010-01-22T10:14:00.003-05:00

A toddler chalkboard easel. A size 2 wetsuit. Wooden playclips for building forts. A small trampoline with a handlebar across the side—the children spent hours jumpin on it every winter day, and used it as a “bunk bed” though it’s only eight inches off the floor. They hung by their knees from the handlebar, ignoring the manufacturer’s safety warnings.

Wooden train tracks.

The attic fills with toys-once-dear, artifacts of earlier years of my parenting life, the silken capes, some of them hand-dyed with marigold petals as a kindergarten project. Thick books with cardboard pages, so critical for everyday life—just a few months ago, it seems.

Now our living space fills with musical instruments, a violin, a keyboard, woodwinds of all kinds, ocarinas and pan pipes. The shelves fill with chapter books—never enough to satisfy the hungry readers—and always a few really good books we parents nudge children to try. Someday they will. A few picture books still linger, though they gather dust. My son needs a shelf just for his baseball collections, and my daughter crafts more paper dolls than we can house. Nowadays her paper dolls look more like contemporary teenagers and less like Laura Ingalls Wilder. Our handcrafted cloth dolls might need to be tucked away in tissue paper soon, to protect them from dust and teenage experiments.

My daughter laughed when I showed her the tiny flower-print cap she wore for her first few months, when she had no hair. Newborn pajamas seem impossibly small. She is in middle school now.

As winter sets in I notice the differences between this year and the last: we didn’t visit the playground this fall, too busy with swim lessons and play dates and my teaching schedule. My son still loves to return home at the end of the school day, but gone are the days of building little cities on the floor, and pushing small cars along handmade roads.

I love these kids’ ages, now more than ever. Madeleine crafted tuna salad sandwiches for my dinner, yesterday, because I had schoolwork due. Soon winter will arrive in earnest and Brendan will commandeer the snow shoveling. Twelve years from now my children could be parenting their own babies, and suddenly twelve years doesn’t seem long at all.

Saving these toys happened by accident—I thought I sold the trampoline years ago. A friend offers $20 for the easel and the bottles of tempera paint. A mom at school gives me $10 for the wetsuit. But I scrap the plan to sell the wooden barn, the dollhouse. I can pack away a few boxes and hold them for a decade or maybe more. And tucked in beside the useful toys, I’ll enclose the tiny pajamas and hats, the special dolls. Why? I don’t know. I have two small boxes of my own belongings from childhood—nothing I’d pass on to anyone else, really. I loved my room as a kid, my quilt with the birds embroidered on it, and only a few other things. I kept a teddy bear my friend Cheryl gave me in eighth grade. My son sleeps with it—he asked me one day how old the Teddy is, and when I answered, “your bear is 33,” he paused for a moment and said, “Let’s just say she’s two.” I have a hard time wrapping my head around that many years, too.

I keep the tiny purple and white alarm clock I spied at a store when I was ten years old. I nagged my mother each visit to the store, reminding her there was only one alarm clock like it. I couldn’t find a price tag for it. Then it disappeared from the store shelves and I grieved and pouted. When I found the tiny clock atop of my stack of presents under the Christmas tree, I was like Clara in the Nutcracker, making everyone confirm that the clock was perfect, its ticking was perfect, its alarm bell was perfect. “Three dollars and ninety-five cents,” my mother muttered to my dad. “Maybe we didn’t need to get her all those other things,” my dad quipped over his Christmas cup of coffee. I wound the clock dutifully through high school and college until it stopped ticking.

My little purple and white alarm clock sits on my son’s workbench, now. I keep opening the back to see what I can learn, to “fix” it for another few days, until it stops working again.

Each year I bring out “new” tools from my early adult life: the alarm clock, which the boy might learn to fix. My daughter was delighted to find I have a full set of calligraphy pens and inks, which I set aside for just this time. In the springtime, I will offer them some juggling toys I bought at Pike Place Market, in Seattle, in 1987.

I will choose carefully before packing “the keepers” from my children’s childhoods—we can’t keep much, so it’s best to sort carefully now. The rocking horse my father made, it stays. The travel mattress for toddlers goes, and the nursing pillow. Soon I will make one more pass through the bags of kid art projects, to see which pages offer a snapshot of who they were, when they were smaller, the “alien people” whose bodies were round, and to discover which of the paintings no one can identify any longer.

Keeping mementos is a very odd practice. Can anyone say why we do it? We want our children to know they were loved, I suppose—but they already know that in ways far deeper than a rocking horse would show. We can't keep much, so how do we choose?

Perhaps we keep things to remember who we were, when our children laughed and rocked for hours, singing, how we sang, too and glanced at one another over our coffee cups, happy to have chosen just the right thing, happy for our children to be completely and utterly satisfied.

bewildered

2010-01-17T07:36:00.002-05:00

I keep getting spam on one particular post in my archives. Any idea how to deal with that?

2010, here we are

2010-01-15T11:11:00.002-05:00

I generally do not indulge myself in post-holiday depression because I am so often overcome by post-holiday euphoria: my children go back to school, my husband goes back to work, and I get the house to myself once again, the happiest circumstance. Now I can get work done.

Or so it’s been for the past few years. Last January and the January before, I threw my efforts into my graduate work. January 2007, I was applying for grants, freelancing for a magazine, working part-time for my blind friend on the weeks she was home from the hospital.

In May 2007, a friend offered to buy me a laptop so I could work while in grad school. We took my acceptance letter to the Apple store, to get an education discount. I said to my friend, we can return it if I just don’t open it. He pulled out his pocket knife for the UPC symbol on the box, for a rebate of some kind, and the deed was done. I was going to school, or else.

My blind friend entered the hospital for an extended stay, the same month. I was writing a story about her the morning she died in December 2007. Then came January 2008—behind on my reading for the first quarter, I determined I’d not get behind again.

In January 2009, I prepared my critical thesis and kept reading.

In August 2009, I finished grad school and packed my children up for a long road trip, following one travel extravaganza with another. From the passenger seat of the car, I phoned to accept a job offer, teaching a course for first-year students at a nearby college—for one semester. The semester ended in December and I spent the first days of my kids’ Christmas break grading papers.

When I look through my own papers, I find ticket stubs from Santa Fe and Cincinnati, and New Hampshire. My bedside is awash in student papers, literary journals, spiral-bound notebooks, and knitting projects.

We had a lovely Christmas. It snowed at the beginning, and snowed again at the end, and in the middle we stayed home most of the time, cooking, preparing, singing and enjoying our new gifts.

Now they go back to school and jobs and I am not a student anymore, not a teacher this semester. I am freelancing, or I am unemployed, or I am just catching up with myself. I am frustrated that I’ve gotten so little done this week: I’ve attended a school party for my sixth grader, applied for a state grant, organized a list of literary contest dates. I’ve written each day. I’ve begun to clean house and restore order to our lives.

I’ve not made resolutions nor lost 20 pounds. I’ve not cleaned the icons off my desktop. I’ve not won literary awards nor found a well-paid job. I’ve written a few email thank-yous, but not nearly enough for the gifts I’ve been given in the past year.

I will need to shed another skin to enter this new 2010 life of mine. I need to make my own deadlines, like a grown-up, and keep them. I will need to make inquiries for magazine stories.

A friend needs a babysitter for two days next week, at a pre-grad school rate of pay. Her father smiles as he says, “You will sleep well when you are done!” The two-year-old laughs and prances all day, then she naps. When her mother arrived home at the end of the day, the child pointed at me and announced, "Mama! She SINGS!" And so I do. It’s a happy match.

Catch up soon.

2010-01-15T11:05:00.001-05:00

The sky looks like snow, and my feet won't get warm. I've been writing more often by pen and paper, but I will return with posts, soon.

2010-01-06T11:14:00.002-05:00

It's been a MONTH since I posted! Forgive me: busy season. I'm just warming up.

Pale blue-and-white striped flannel, floor length. Not too heavy, no real signs of wear. I pulled the crumpled robe from the donation box for the thrift shop. A little blue-and-white striped ruffle around the collar, but nothing too “girly”. I looked out the windows to see if anyone was watching me sort the giant box of cast-off clothing. I slipped one arm in a sleeve, and the other. I tied the belt and smoothed my hands down the front, and did a little dance. The flannel seemed brand new. I walked back into my apartment to the full-length mirror. Perfect.

I’d not owned a bathrobe as a child—bathrobes were Extras, and my brothers grew too fast for my family to buy Extras. Why buy a robe when a hooded sweatshirt makes a passable extra layer? In a pinch, my mother’s ratty terry robe would do for a dash to my bedroom, as long as I brought it back to its assigned hook in the bathroom.

My mother was happy to buy me a giant plush bathrobe, in emerald green, for my first Christmas in college. My dorm room was drafty, I said, and I’d been craving this bear-like robe. The inch-thick pile felt exotic, heavy, satisfying. When I returned to school I flaunted my prize, strutting down the hallway. Dust balls collected around the hem within minutes, and lint, and talcum powder. I couldn’t wash my hands or face while wearing the robe because it was too big and got in my way. So I couldn’t wear it to the bathroom, or from the shower. The cuffs bunched under my wrist when I tried to write at my desk. The robe wasn’t functional for anything but sitting, so I cuddled in the emerald fur robe to read in bed. Each time I moved I left a scattering of emerald fur where I’d been sitting. As a final insult, when I walked the dorm halls in my fabulous robe, my neck ached from the weight of it. On cold nights I threw the robe over my blankets, glad for the heaviness. I packed the behemoth around for another year, unable to part with the idea of coziness and warmth, and then I bequeathed it to someone who admired it, a sad parting from my bathrobe dream. I bought long underwear and dressed in layers, instead.

Years later, my first fulltime job required me to live in a college dorm, a life I relished. As May finals approached, my dorm residents began packing their rooms up to spend the summer at home. A tall box labeled “clothing donations” appeared in the lounge across the hall from my apartment door. Every day the box filled a bit more, until the box overflowed and clothing piled up around it.

Students offered their final goodbyes. My days were filled with meetings and year-end celebrations. No one picked up the box. On the third day, I told myself I was “sorting.” I folded stuff, starting with the pile outside of the box. I paired shoes and tied their strings together. I buttoned shirts. And then I found the robe. After I tried it on, after I saw its perfection in the mirror, I hung it on the back of my bathroom door and stroked it. Then I went back to the thrift shop box, folded all the clothes neatly against the wall, and gleefully found a good pair of jeans in my size, also. One day the stacks of clothing were gone, along with the donation box, and I forgot about it.

When students returned in the fall, I wore my perfect bathrobe to answer a knock at the door. Deb McMahon paused for a moment before speaking. “I gave that bathrobe to be donated to the poor,” she said.

I blushed and stammered, then smiled at my student friend. “How much do you think college residence directors make?” And we laughed, though she looked skeptical. “I donated some of my things to the poor, too, to make up for the robe that was clearly meant for me. But if you want, I’ll find the charity and send a cash donation for the robe.” She agreed the robe was flattering to me. She’d already bought herself another. She decided she could live with my thievery.

Last year I asked my husband for a new robe, a flannel one, for Christmas. The pattern I wanted was out of stock, leaving animal print and lime green polka dot options. On a whim, I pointed to a different ad: a blue chenille robe with giant pink, yellow and green chenille coffee mugs down the front. Warmth, I thought. Coziness. I opened the gift on Christmas and lifted the blue chenille from of the box: heavy. With sadness I tried it on: cute, in a giant-chenille-barn sort of cute. The robe was cute when I was not wearing it. Enormous cuffed sleeves bunched under my wrist when I sat down. And it made my neck ache. Back into the box it went, with its adorable chenille coffee mug designs. I hated to see it go. My worn old blue and white striped robe would need to “do” for one more season.

This year I jumped on the winter clothing catalogs early, chose a flannel robe in a nice pattern, and found a discount coupon. I demanded that Scott order the robe in October, while it was available. On Christmas when I opened the package, I spied the fabric pattern—beautiful. I ripped open the plastic—soft, very soft. And I slipped in one arm, and another, tied the belt. I walked to the mirror to check it out. Perfect. When I wash it, the flannel will become even softer and fluffier, even more “just right.”

Today I carefully fold the blue-and-white-striped flannel robe to put it in the box I’ll take to the thrift shop. The outside collar is torn and frayed. The inside collar stains will not wash out. The belt loops hang by threads and the belt will not flatten. I picked that robe from the giveaway box 20 years ago, half a lifetime ago, on the other side of the continent. I packed that robe for my job in Pennsylvania, where I lived in a drafty farmhouse for the winter. I wore the robe through my newlywed year, and through the years in the unheated summer home. I wore the robe when I nursed babies, and for ten years since. I remember, now, the flannel quilt kit I gave my children for Christmas. The quilt includes four layers of flannel, and this robe might not be fit for the quilt top, but it would make a fine filler. I pull the robe out of the thrift shop box. It simply resists donation. Such a good robe.

I will send something else to the thrift shop in its place.

midwinter dream

2009-12-08T10:39:00.002-05:00

I arrived home after Starbucks locked up, arms full of research papers to read and grade, and I noticed my daughter’s knitting on the windowsill—but my arms were full. I didn’t wash my face or make tea, just sat to read more papers until sleep overtook me. Then the nocturnal creature we call our pet found some sort of hockey puck to slide mercilessly around the floor. One a.m. I took the hockey puck-object. Three a.m., the running began and of course it was Madeleine’s ball of “eyelash” yarn, strung around the furniture and massed into something unrecognizable. But the children's knitted polar bears were not attacked, thank goodness, though they were left clearly within reach of the cat, on the dining chairs. Six a.m. my husband began the new regime of turning on the lights so children can wake up slowly. The bed is covered with the furry bits of eyelash yarn which clung to my pajamas after my late night yarn rescue.

I am considering a move to an igloo—a dark igloo lined with bearskin rugs, somewhere near Starbucks, where no one turns on lights half an hour early, and no one shreds yarn.

My teaching semester ends soon, and Christmas break begins in a week and a half. Bits of snow remain on the nearby rooftops. I keep promising to bring the Advent candles down from the attic, since we are ten days into Advent. Soon. I found the Christmas music, with which they torture me. I like some of it-- the hymns, the traditionals sung traditionally, and the Squirrel Nut Zippers.

And it’s time for another cup of coffee. Reflection, later. Grading, now.

november sunlight

2009-11-17T11:58:00.001-05:00

The laundry chugs and the dishwasher steams. I washed two skeins of handspun yarn, and “finishing” the yarn requires slapping the wet skeins against the deck railing, twenty or thirty lashings. The neighbor glances at me curiously, then remembers: I slap wet yarn against the deck railing from time to time. Somehow two rows of muddy shoes have gathered on my porch, waiting for somebody to tell them what’s next. Not for me to say, today, as the sun streams in the window. I place the skeins in the sun, on the windowsill.

I love teaching. But I’ve spent 9 hours grading and catching up with student grades, this past weekend. It seems I never have time to read anything but class texts. I’ve submitted my past writings to literary journals, but I’ve only written a little. I am teaching two classes, not even a full load. I am not teaching during the spring semester, and I solemnly swear I will waste no time, but instead I will rush to the writing every morning, as I’ve rushed to the writing most mornings in the past three years. Much to catch up on, many stories to get back to.

Huffington Post published a two-part interview with writer Mary Karr, who says she finished her memoir “Lit” four years behind schedule. When asked why the rewrites, she says she painted herself too dark, and the other characters too light, that her memoir didn’t feel “true” in its earlier versions. Somehow I find great encouragement in her comments. My drawer is filled with stories mulling and fermenting, waiting, ripening, and I can’t wait to get back to revision and re-imagining these sketches. My friend Allison cut a long meaningful passage down to a potent poetic passage, for publication in a journal that only publishes short-short works. My drawer is full of possibilities.

Today, in the workaday laundry and dishwashing and the sun-filled window of drying yarn, I’m remembering my earliest dreams of writing: I will fill a box with writing. Then I will find a group of writers to talk me through my box, to sort and sift and tell me what is good and what sucks. Such a simple equation! Somehow I didn’t consider rewriting, reworking, hammering on these stories. I’ve just begun to learn—the stories themselves teach me patience through annoyance, beauty through chaos. I don’t blog much anymore because I am learning to wait, to consider before posting.

Except today, when I am posting without much consideration, as I brew a second cup of coffee. I read the Arts section of the Sunday Globe, a decadent reward for such long hours of grading. I am still not caught-up with classwork. But I’m writing in my journal, in the window, with a pen. I wish my income from this job extended through spring, but I’m eager to get back to my calling, and I’ll figure it out as I go, as I always do. I love teaching but I can’t wait for the next thing, all over again.

journal note from August

2009-11-02T08:33:00.002-05:00

I can tell the months have been busy: 168 pages in my journal, and this small ringbound edition lasted from early August through October. At other times in my life I've filled a volume per month, but much of my writing happens at the keyboard, these days, and much of my writing time aims toward revision.

When I reach the end of one journal, I draw a nameplate on the next edition, and leave a page for to-dos. Then I cull the filled journal for stuff worth follow-up. Here's a note from early August:

Inside my glorious $10 purse (my graduation purse, the basket purse from Floating Lotus), the lining is filled with loose glitter from a birthday invitation for my daughter. As I dig for change for the parking meter, my fingers sparkle. A quick shake of my hair and glitter rains. In the mirror, a stubborn speck of glitter shines from my the arch of my eyebrow.

At Starbucks today escaping THEM and their rambling summer schedules, their bickering, their need. Ran into Matt-who-lives-at-Starbucks and I told him no one has called about this teaching job at the college. Matt teaches the class I want, and he tells me I'd be perfect for it. I know. Why don't they call? I hope I haven't killed off my chances with enthusiasm.

Glitter on my eyeglass case. Glitter on my pen. They need to call me NOW.

Blessed. The worry-scowl lifts a moment with each sparkle.

Reading Brothers Karamozov today.

be careful while reading: Holy the Firm

2009-10-31T20:35:00.003-04:00

I've been eager to post some of my book musings from grad school, since I am so swamped with other kinds of work now.

I hope to write more of my encounter with Annie Dillard, beginning with a phone call I made to my physician. When I told him I could not afford the time to come to his office, I was working on deadline, he asked me to walk to a mirror. "Just tell me if the nose is straight." Blue, swollen, numb, yes-- but straight.

Ever since I accidentally sailed through The Dry Salvages, inadvertently studying mortality and loss of dignity, I’ve learned to be more superstitious about my literary life and my daily life. So I should not under any circumstances read Holy the Firm while away from my natural environs, should not be walking anywhere near falling planes or moths and open flames. Or banana peels in my pathway, or the rake resting in the grass with the tines pointing upward, waiting.
I should know. The possibility of irony is so vast, if one is foolish enough or lucky enough to read sixty-two books in two years—the possibility of overlap, of time warp linking past writing to current moment. I’ve read too much, and anything could happen.

So I pack my car with sleeping bags and stuffed animals and mud boots and farm clothes and third-graders for a three-day trip to a farm in New Hampshire, and I pack Holy the Firm. I’ve read excerpts, but not the entire book. And the forecast calls for rain. The children run off to milk cows and build a shed and dig in the garden, and I open Annie Dillard, to read about a landscape nearly like my own, watery and full of strange islands, a room full of windows, a small skull of a place to live. The dreamlike quality of the first essay tugs me in and out of tangible realities and we are talking about days and gods and I’m not sure exactly what burning thing the cat drags in at the end of the chapter, but Dillard is fearsome like that cat.

In chapter two, the plane falls from Dillard’s sky and a child is burned beyond recognition—the child, the burning god that the cat drug in. Dillard launches into questions about the nature of God and gods, about angels and fire. And she says, “The joke of the world… is the old rake in the grass, the one that you step on, foot to forehead.” Any properly superstitious reader would immediately slam the book shut and utter prayers like, “is not, is not, is not…” with squeezed-shut eyes, but did I do that? No. I went on to drive the car to the store to buy marshmallows for third-graders to roast in the woods. We found the head of a horned steer rotting on a shelf near the old cabin, and dry wood underneath the old cabin, and we started a fire even in a heavy mist of a rain. And no one’s eye was put out, even though the possibility was right there. We were playing with fire. Or as Dillard might note, we could see clearly the fire we were playing with, though we are all playing with fire every minute of our lives.

I got up the next morning and walked kids to the barn, where we learned to milk a cow, and we waved to the kittens, and I asked about the steer’s head in the woods. The farmer wanted the skull, you see, and he didn’t want coyotes or bobcats to be attracted to the barn with the scent of rotting meat. And he did want the woods creatures to eat away the flesh of the steer, leaving the bone. We listened as we brushed the milk cow and calmed her, as the barn cats lapped up the first bowl of cream.

I thought the threat of Chapter Two had passed, so I read more about Julie Norwich and fire, and prayer, and rakes. “You wake up with a piece of tree in your skull. You wake up with fruit on your hands. You wake up in a clearing and see yourself, ashamed.” With this reading I see Adam and Eve, and a Tree in the skull, the Fall. Dillard lives in a skull of a room, she writes, and the tree is right there with her. It all comes clear.

I am careful while walking on this farm, a Waldorf farm, which means anything could kill you any time because we do not over-protect children. And that is why an enormous coping saw lies out on the big stump by the volleyball net, and lengths of sodden plywood forms a ramp for bicycles in the woods. I watch for the saw, for the ramp, for the obvious, for the rake, and meander through those questions of evil and innocence, while getting muddy with third-graders. The volleyball disappears and I find seven boys inching closer to the electric fence, the ball on the other side. The ground is wet and I catch one boy reaching out a hand… I tell him there is nothing to be done, that the volleyball game is over now. The boys shrug and walk away, looking back over their shoulders at the blue volleyball in the green field, on the other side. No one is killed, again and again.

Day Three on the Farm, parents arrive and the sky clears and we hike North Pack Monadnock, eating our bag lunches at the summit. The nine-year-olds rush back down the trail. Two of us parents decide to hurry down the mountainside to catch up with the boys, since most injuries happen during descents—we talk about this. I worry about my toes—my sandals are athletic, but the toes are open, and I don’t want to be stupid. I grab a sturdy walking stick to help with the rough terrain. The stick helps more than I would suspect and I pick up speed.

Then I slip on a wet slab of granite, and as I fall my walking stick gets caught between a tree trunk and my foot and the fat stick slams me in the face: the tree, in my skull, the sudden awakening in the twinkling of an eye. You wake in a clearing with fruit on your hands. The man who’d been rushing ahead to help children hike safely, returns to say, “well, we need to find something to wipe the blood from your chin,” and a ten-year-old boy tells me the vampire look is “in” this year, as he passes me to join his younger brother below. “Is my nose broken?” The man thinks not. I stagger to find flat ground, to get my bearings. My teeth and jaw are numb. The other parents make me take caution down the last miles of the mountain trail, me hanging with the people at the back, mopping occasional blood from my swelling lip. I mutter something about rakes and enlightenment and being knocked into next week.

I feel certain the moral of the story is to never read Annie Dillard. “Teach my thy ways, O Lord,” is the kind of prayer one ought to know better than to pray, as she implies. But the temptation is far too great. Some people read crime novels, or horror stories, because they can’t help themselves. I read dangerous books about fire and angels and pieces of wood flying at skulls. I’m building a tolerance for the next whack, I suppose. I am asking the same questions, why, how, how come, and I feel fortunate it is my bloody nose and aching teeth, and not some child on fire. The parents pull me aside to tell of mishaps over the past year, a bruised hip, stitches, a broken nose. They remind me that we heal, albeit slowly. I add an ice pack, rinse with salt water, spit blood.

I should be more careful what I read. Too bad. I can’t, and I won’t. I’ll just be mindful of the tree in my skull as I read of seraphim bursting into flames for the love of God.

quiet October morning

2009-10-14T10:09:00.002-04:00

The weather is startlingly cold for October, but my condo by the sea responds well to sunlight. I will open the windows, soon.

Many student papers to grade. Also soon.

Much to tell, but I am swamped with work and deadlines. I'm also recovering from a hip injury-- I fell while hiking in New Hampshire in May, and my back remains stiff since then. I've been working hard with a chiropractor and an Alexander teacher, trying to work the kinks out. Monday was my first pain-free, stiffness-free day, and Tuesday was not so bad, either. All to say I spend a surprising number of hours on my back, on the floor, daily. And this means I'm neglecting you and my poor, poor blog-- can't blog very easily from the floor. I'm seeking a comfortable reading chair, which might remedy this situation. For now the floor is the only place my back tolerates well.

Many stories brewing in my head.

I must grade! The sun shines. The coffee is hot. The pencil is sharpened.

Will write more soon.

sandwiching

2009-09-10T18:50:00.001-04:00

I park the car in front of my empty house. If I pick up the mail I might miss this small window of time to write. I don’t pick up the mail. I stuff the wrappers from last night’s dinner (three cheese sticks) in the walking shoes I did not wear today. My purse holds the ingredients for tonight’s dinner: organic fresh mozzarella, a loaf of rosemary-garlic bread, a small bunch of basil. I climb the stairs, open the door and set out my treasures. Jennie left me two fresh tomatoes. It will be a sandwich above all sandwiches, dripping with olive oil and feathered with thin ribbons of basil. A marked improvement.

Teaching is wonderful, when I feel effective. Last night’s class erupted like a carefully built bonfire, one thing on another on another, a sea of inspiration from beginning to end. I opened the class with “interrupted free-writing,” asking students to list things they feel passionate about, favorite foods, people they miss, things they talk about. I asked them to circle three or four items on the list, and to keep the list handy. With a few sentences on thesis statements, and a few items from the syllabus, we listened to several examples of NPR’s “This I Believe” essays, evaluating each for tone and subject matter, beginnings and ends. Then we rearranged the classroom into small groups and worked on revising our own thesis statements in a recent essay. I offered a handout on beefing up thesis statements, and teams went to work. We listened to one last NPR essay, and the class was over.

Tonight’s class is the more introverted section of students, and they will not be played with, will not argue with me. I need to give them more structure and tuck away some of my enthusiasm. They are not convinced they need a class in order to write better. They are not convinced they need a book to help them write college papers. They are not convinced (at all) that revision will help their writing. In truth, they are okay writers, with passable skills—but what I see as “passable” will not get them through college. How will they learn to write with excellence, if they don’t see their own need? It’s a harder sell, all around.

The first bite of my sandwich is AMAZING. I can’t say how long I’ve been hungering for this little feast—okay, I can say. I’ve been hankering for this sandwich since I saw the first ripe tomato, maybe five weeks ago. But I hate to shop, and I don’t describe “fresh mozzarella” effectively, I guess. Scott and kids went to a cookout at his school, and I dropped by the farmers market, knowing the season is nearing its end.

Each day I follow up a few more things on the list of necessary tasks, phone calls, appointments, calendar stuff, catching up. I hope for a few hours to write and edit, tomorrow, before I get mired in administrative stuff. I’ve been traveling and transitioning for eight or nine weeks, and now I need to pull this writing/teaching life together. Like this sandwich, I don’t want to miss the whole season of tomatoes, or the whole season of autumn and writing.

I may need to write out some thoughts for tomorrow, so I wake up ready. First rule to beat procrastination: start early. I just said that in class.

I pick up the tomato seeds on the tip of my finger, and mop up a few drops of olive oil from the empty plate. Think I need a second sandwich. Look—I left the ingredients out on the counter…

September note

2009-09-10T09:38:00.000-04:00

The first week of September passes, and unlike most of my Septembers here, it’s no longer beach weather—by the start of September, a cool breeze blew under even the warmest temperatures, and we’ve turned toward autumn: finding socks, finding long pants, finding jackets. We were left with no time to mourn the passing of summer, and perhaps that’s a good thing. The days go on, sunny and beautiful and just near perfect, but the air chills as the sun goes down, and the skies darken at an hour appropriate to school-night bedtimes. Kids sleep, and I’m grateful.

I am teaching college students how to write—a miraculous fit for my gifts and strengths. I hope to discover how to do my own writing, along the way, since I’m only teaching part-time. So far I’m just keeping up with the grading and class prep. I’m eager to submit essays to literary magazines, and I have one essay 95% ready—it needs one more technical edit, line-by-line, to make sure I’ve cited my source material correctly. Then I’m eager to dig into my story about learning to cook. Then my story about my sense of smell. And I need to keep digging for more new writing.

Soon. Right now I’m just keeping up. And starting the house-shopping process, and parenting, and trying to catch up with the glut of papers and books collected over two years of grad school.

You will see more of me, here. But the weather is too beautiful just now. I’ve been suffering a stiff back and neck, and I’m going to go walk the beach to see if the stiffness subsides. I’m a bit behind on grading, but I’m more behind on walking and sand and breeze.

Happy September to you.

just as I was preparing to be gainfully unemployed...

2009-08-24T22:09:00.002-04:00

I've been offered a teaching position at a nearby college!

I will need to carve out time to write-- but it's going to be a few weeks.

Thanks, friends and readers. I'll return soon.

Denise

i just turned five.

2009-08-10T21:13:00.001-04:00

Dear readers,

In the year 2004 I returned home from a summer in New Hampshire, where my husband worked for a camp and I tended our children in the big green woods. I recall how excited I was to return to internet access, how I immediately set out to find six friends from college, to see if they were planning to attend our 20th reunion. No yeses, but I rediscovered a friend or two or three, and I wanted to tell them how I got here, to find out how they arrived where they are. One especially-dear writing friend suggested I start a blog. I didn’t know what the word meant. He said it was a commitment to write, so I said yes, I wanted a commitment to write.

I wrote a column for Amy, for the alumni newsletter of an organization I loved. Amy was kind enough to let me write articles for two years. When the alumni newsletter changed formats, Amy introduced me to Kirsten at Catapult magazine, who graciously welcomed my writing, though she’d never met me. I drafted a memoir while I worked as a writing tutor for a nearby college. I was tossed out on my ear from the local memoir class—no one would read after me, or critique my stuff, and the teacher said I’d need to move on to something more advanced, even if I felt like a new writer. (She is a lucky find of a teacher, in so many ways.)

Three years ago I snagged my first freelance paycheck for Interweave Spin-Off, a magazine for spinners of yarn, with a six-page piece titled “How to Host Your Own Yarn-Party for Children.” My second and third freelance pieces were for Living Crafts magazine. And I got a job with Ladies Home Journal and then More magazine.

And the last two years have been happily invested in grad school. I’ve worked harder than I thought possible, and my writing continues to surprise me.

Happy Writing Anniversary to me: I’ve been writing for five years. I just graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing, from a program I love, with students and faculty I enjoy and admire. “What’s Next?” is a huge question, with children home on summer vacation, I’m sending resumes, checking around, getting suggestions. Of course, I’m a writer, so what’s next is my writing, after vacation and after beaches and general August behavior. When kid-school starts, I will edit my favorite essay one more time, and submit it to literary journals. And then I’ll get to work on my story about learning to cook, for a food-writing anthology. And then I’ll edit and revise the stories about my work as personal assistant to a blind woman.

That ought to keep me busy.

Meanwhile I hope to write letters, if I can, and post some of my graduate annotations while I pull together my blogging-self once again. I started this blog as an exercise in gratitude, and in gratitude I continue.

Thanks for being here. You are very dear readers.

Denise

since the author just visited my blog: Bewildered Travel

2009-08-08T22:40:00.003-04:00

I typed this annotation a year ago, or more-- then the author of the book FOUND me, here! I am so very lucky. He likes my pictures of yarn...

...bewilderment is not usually fun. Confusion is what we don’t want. Knowledge, information, clarity and good sense are what we cling to and seek. And yet… p. 3

I wonder if perhaps all writing is travel-writing: a character gets from “here” to “there,” even if the “getting-to” is as slow as Proust and even if the locale changes as little as a Flannery O’Connor tale. I read to look for a shift, and to shift my view of the world. I wonder if all reading is travel-reading…

Frederick Ruf suggests that we travel because we seek danger, because (like a Flannery O’Connor character) we need a violent shaking up. He suggests we love the failures we endure in travel, noting how we highlight travel’s hardships after a long trip. And he suggests we travel because we seek that odd state of altered consciousness that can only be found when moving, that we seek a form of “trance.” Ruf’s writing style evokes this same trancelike quality, a kind of readerly hypnosis, a loss of the outside world, and I can’t for the life of me define “how” or “why” just yet.

Bewildered Travel is not notable for form, and in fact reads almost formlessly. Most parts of the seven chapters could easily be dropped into another of the chapters without seeming out of place. There is no chronology, no plot, no narrative. The essays themselves meander, window-shopping around the globe and throughout the history of travel writing. The book is not systematic. I’ve no idea how Ruf decided to end the book, how he felt satisfied. I’ve not decided for myself if the book is really “finished.” Each little portion of the book raises a thousand new questions, exhausts me.

Ruf’s language intrigues on a sentence level and paragraph level. The book is so full of sentence-puzzles and subtle repetitions, reworkings of theme. More than once I’ve lost my bookmark, and just as I’m swooning over something utterly “new,” I realize I’ve already read that section, though it seemed fresh and urgent all over again. I can read each paragraph over and over. How does he do that?

First, Ruf asks questions about human nature. Why do we leave home? Why do we “go” anywhere? What is it we hope to find when we walk away from the nest we’ve so carefully feathered? Frederick Ruf suggests that our home lives form a surface, and the purpose of travel is to trouble and “rupture” that surface. Bewildered Travel asks why, what we are seeking, why this human need to leave and to rupture, what purpose is served by travel, and Ruf turns the question a myriad of ways. Is it a pilgrimage? What holiness does pilgrimage serve? Is it “commerce with the ancients,” as traditional travel writers assumed? How much of the goodness of travel is achieved by the “trance-state” of altered consciousness of driving or flying? What do we hope when we meet strangers? How does the experience of travel affect our experience of our own bodies?

Throughout Bewildered Travel, Ruf surveys travel writing from Matthew Arnold’s earnestness, to the first travel guides, to Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad and Paul Bowles’ The Sheltering Sky. In his theory that we travel to rupture surfaces, Ruf pulls in the writings of Flannery O’Connor (though she doesn’t travel) to say perhaps we are looking to get knocked in the head, to forget who we once were, to be transformed. Perhaps we love danger, secretly. Perhaps we are coming to terms with death just by walking onto a plane.

Some books are so quirky as to be endearing—take a book like Walker Percy’s Lost in the Cosmos. Ruf’s work asks similar questions, but without the humor that provides Percy with a safe distance from the reader. Ruf’s heart is deeply mired in mystery in an intimate way Lost in the Cosmos could never approach. I see Ruf’s shyness, his reticence when a Cuban woman motions he should step down a dark hallway with her—he doesn’t go, but he wonders if he’s missed something. He envies another travel writer who encounters strangers “by touch.” He describes being mugged less than half a mile from his own home, saying “travel” needn’t be any further than one’s own threshold.

I can’t say what is so compelling about Ruf’s writing. Perhaps it’s an artful formlessness that is so like travel itself. He suggests we travel for the trance state, for the delirium, and I like his writing precisely because it evokes that mystery he names so well. Though I’ve finished reading the book, I’ll continue reading the world Ruf names, to ask questions of my surfaces, ruptures, and what about travel makes us rise to occasions and thrive on disruption.

In commentary, I continue to wonder how to describe writing residencies for my non-student friends, what enlivens me and why. I hold closely Ruf’s notions about the surfaces of my home-life being ruptured like a violent knock in the head, of the travel-trance of sleeplessness, of being “other,” and the questions about travel and, essentially, strangers, though I come to know these students well. What is this odd thing I hop on a plane and fly “away” to? Why the excitement to pursue hours of academic content, for heaven’s sake? Must I fall in love with everyone? My neighbor Jennie came to The Glen Workshop this year, and she tells me maybe she’s never really met me before. I tell her everyone is much bigger at residencies. “You touch everyone here,” she exclaimed. “And they like it,” I replied.

There is no adequate explanation of residencies. Bewildered Travel is the best approximation to date, of how astonishing and beautiful this low-residency study pattern is, how bewildering, how disruptive, and how good.

In the first, second and third drafts of this annotation, I find myself repeating “I don’t know what it is Ruf does to write like a snake charmer.” I look for clues in the balance of scene, summary and reflection. Ruf chooses distinct, powerful scenes, but most of the book is reflection. Much of the reflection is repetitive, turning phrases like one of those colored-cube toys, about the disruption of surfaces. I think also about disrupt and rupture, the abrupt sound of the words (“abrupt,” too, I know…) and I think of the smooth sound of “surface.” Often he summarizes an incident mentioned earlier in the book, or stops to fill out a scene painted earlier in the book, to puzzle it against a new scene. Well-crafted reflection is a peculiar art, and since I tend to write more as a story-teller, I’m envious, intrigued, and I want to see more. I’ll look at the book again—it’s truly too good to put down, even after several reads. Like those colored-cube puzzles, I find I can’t keep my hands off it.

thursday evening Santa Fe

2009-07-31T01:26:00.001-04:00

Hey, my MFA residency is going well-- and sleep calls.

road trip: from Spokane to Newport, Idaho to Billings, Montana,

2009-07-22T11:10:00.002-04:00

In an hour we will be back in the truck... Billings, Montana to Vernal,Utah today.

delayed summer creates new laziness

2009-07-17T10:41:00.000-04:00

They read, now. They sleep, too. They quietly hunker in their beds, waiting for the day to call them, but the day is subtle and they are slow to hear.

When my children were infants, I learned the adage, “never wake a sleeping baby.” Never assume a schedule takes precedence over these small bodies, small universes crafting their own timing. Hungry for quiet, myself, I made my own schedule a liquid one. If they were restless, rummaging for things to do, I could find them the right project. If they hadn’t eaten, a snack would appear before they thought about it. If they were quiet—especially if TWO of them were quiet, or napping, I was quiet, too.

Last summer Madeleine and Brendan would wake quietly, early. I’d walk into the living room at 6 a.m. and find children playing with paper dolls or blocks, the floor covered. Brendan, the younger, would say, “hi Mama. What should I do today?” And he’d come ask me the same thing, every ten minutes or so. They would tussle over toys and floor territory by 7 a.m., and that’s how I would wake, to whines or yelling matches or someone claiming the other was unfair, or the Chinese water torture of a boy asking for something to do.

This summer, our schedules shifted to fit nighttime little league games and my children discovered nighttime. As parents, we’ve grown slack in the bedtime department. They stay up late, and they sleep in, for the first time ever, every day. And when they wake, they do not eat or brush teeth or dress or brush hair. They read. Endlessly.

Sometimes these children can be enticed to do chores, fantastical chores like cleaning the grill (blasting the pieces with water from the hose) or mopping the floor (he doesn’t know I HATE mopping the floor and would avoid it far longer than I should). Madeleine helped me cut out fabric for window shades, and iron on the backing. She’s baked twenty loaves of bread this summer, finding just the right recipe after all those rainy June days. I say, “let’s wrap presents for Shauna,” and she rushes to the attic to find the supplies. All the while, piles of stuff mysteriously stack up on the kids’ shelves and desk, and the kids’ floor sprouts piles of papers, art supplies, half-finished projects. “Astounding chores” are completed. Everyday chores are ignored.

For their sake, I worry about energy levels, muscle strength, vitamin D reserves, sugar lows, and the general lack of industry for anything but reading. I worry that perhaps they are not moving because they are dehydrated. I worry because I don’t want to DEMAND that they get out of bed and interact with the world.

On the other hand, dear friends, I am still a grad student and I still have work to do. I am packing for a long journey, and preparing a lecture and a reading. My reading is about 15 pages too long, and “cutting” pages is hell for me. It requires concentration. I’ve collected plenty of material for my lecture, but it’s not yet completely organized. I need to print hundreds of pages of workshop material from other writers, and my tickets and itinerary, (and the TSA laws for carrying knitting needles).

I wonder if I ought to be doing something differently, if there will be a price to pay when we adapt to the school schedule again, if letting them be lazy is negligence on my part. In my small-town youth, I slept and read books. Not much was required of me. My mother was working in the garage, or thinking through her day, or writing a letter. Sometimes I’d wake to find no one at home, a note on the table saying where I could find her. I’d rustle up some breakfast and talk to the cat and open a book.

Soon I will be traveling and my crew of childcare folks will bring in new energy. The kids will throw on bathing suits and go outside and do things. No one will need to tell them to move from bed, so many exciting things to do.

Meanwhile, far be it from me to wake the sleeping babies, who are not really sleeping. I will take each of them a cup of raspberries from the garden, in a few minutes. After I get a little work done.

boucle

2009-06-20T10:07:00.003-04:00

This is flawed boucle yarn-- I still need to assess the damage, but evidently I spun some of the fiber in the opposite direction, not good. I can repair it, but first I needed to clear all the yarn from my bobbins for the spinning project pictured in the previous post.

Still: isn't the color gorgeous? I can't wait to knit hats from this stuff.

june june june june

2009-06-16T12:15:00.014-04:00

June spells an end to the weekly school routine for children, which spells an end to the wake-up-and-hurry routine of sheep-dogging kids through breakfast. Each morning we three luxuriate while Scott finishes another two or three days of his own school.

And my school deadline-schedule is... OVER. I'm still scratching my head over it: I'm DONE? Okay, I still need to read three books (Uwek Akpan's Say You're One of Them, Shusako Endo's Silence, and Some Fabulous NonFiction Read yet to be named). Okay, I also need to construct a craft lecture for my final residency, and I need to read an essay out-loud in 90 degree heat, in a room full of people I enjoy, and the reading will scare me to death because I will sweat gallons. One of my former classmates grabbed the podium like it was the handlebars of a motorcycle, taking off into the story with everyone in tow, and I hope to do the same, not to melt or weep or become a master thespian. All of these are possible. But whatever happens I will graduate in five weeks or so in the glorious heat of Santa Fe.

So I enter this summer differently: I don't need to fight for time to myself, to get school-work done, for the first time in two years. I WILL need to develop a routine of writing, a daily rhythm. But not yet. For now I am weary far beyond bodily weariness-- I've been pushing so very hard, and worrying so much about the future, about money, housing, and the job I want.

I'm repairing household stuff, cleaning up from this past few years of house-neglect. I'm deeply paying attention to these beautiful children. I love their ages, their sensitivities at this age. I love the summer-break honeymoon, for now, and I expect their happy state to last another week or so. We're putting together menus, shopping lists, lists of chores and repairs and garden work. We're making sure every car has a copy of the tide chart, and a bag of bathing suits, and a frisbee.

Little notes: I took a job spinning yarn, for a few hundred dollars and a few hours of work. I'll post pictures.

My magazine job ended unceremoniously on Monday-- which gives me an opportunity to overhaul my schedule and my messy time involvement on the internet. I hope to write more regularly for my blog (yay!) and to limit my time on Facebook and Ravelry, two wonderful time-wasters.

If I could choose any work for the fall, I'd teach a couple sections of Gordon's Great Conversations, but for now the school is under a hiring freeze. And I'd freelance, and write. And revise mightily, which seems to be the real work ahead of me.

I can't face writing a CV today, the only likely quiet day of my week. I'm trying to think how to encapsulate the past decade on a piece of paper that explains why I'm qualified to teach this course, even though I'm confident that I'm perfect for the job. Meanwhile I'm headed to Newburyport's Loom and Shuttle weaving shop, on the way to pick up my family at Canoby Lake Park.

Talk more soon. Happy June.

2009-06-15T08:19:00.002-04:00

My thesis is finished.

The kids' school is finished and they are home for the summer.

I just slept in until eight a.m.

This week is reserved for weeding in the garden, cleaning and repairing, helping kids get into some good habits for this wee "summer vacation honeymoon." I have three more books to read, and I need to remember how to plan a menu for summer. But the lettuces are thriving and the pea vines look promising. I'm hauling a stack of books out of the bedroom and onto the living room shelves.

Soon I need to develop a CV and find work, to pay off this masters degree. My family needs a house. Lots of work ahead.

I'll post some more writing, soon.

work work scribble scribble

2009-05-07T12:46:00.003-04:00

Only 31 pages that look like this, for this revision.

Reminder to self: PAPER copies and COLORED PENCIL. It helps. It's more fun to revise on paper than on the silly old necessary-blessed laptop.

Here's where I am-- turned in a complete rewrite of the Karen stories, two weeks ago, and these 51 pages of stories are the ones in search of a narrator. (If you have a narrator I can borrow, let me know.) For next Monday's deadline, I am revising On a Halcyon Day, 31 pages. After letting this story "rest" for nearly a year, I'm excited to dig into it once again, with a fresh ear. Then I need to revise a story about learning to cook from a theology book, and two other short pieces that make a total of 100 pages.

Sorry about the backwards-photo-- it's my laptop photo-booth and I am zipping along to more work now...

Early May, revising thesis while waiting for the rain

2009-05-04T10:13:00.003-04:00

My printer is churning out 51 pages of my thesis, for me to carry and examine and color-code in the revision process—the stories of my year working with Karen, The Not-So-Blind. Next I will assess the other 49 pages of my thesis and see what needs to be done before the next due-date in a week. Then three weeks more of revision brings me to the June due-date and the end of my kids’ school schedule, and I’d better be done with my 100 page creative writing thesis by then.

After the thesis, I develop my “craft lecture” for a presentation in July, and finish up my reading. Five or six more books to read and annotate.

And afterwards I will find a house for us, find a job for me, change my family’s fortune, and read long and irrelevant novels that have NOTHING to do with nonfiction or memoir or magazines or how to write. That’s my dream for now: Dostoyevsky. More David James Duncan and Annie Dillard. I will help my kids make scrapbooks, tend the garden, and be amazing.

In this amazing life to come, post-graduation, I’m trying to figure out what my blog needs to be. I will likely craft some sort of website using my full name, with links to my current publications. It might be awhile before I “write casually” again: "writing seriously" requires more time and effort, and I like the results much more. But I miss the “whipping off a note” experience, and I see that people are faithfully dropping by to check in on me.

I’ve been posting more two-line blips on Facebook and one-line blips on Twitter, to keep from spending a whole morning writing a blog-post. I can’t really say what will happen after my graduation. Much depends on job-finding and freelance opportunity. And housing and kid-schedules.

Weigh in with your ideas, if you wish. My blog has been “my on-going letter to friends and family,” and I’ve written much less to you in the past few months, by necessity. Maybe you should write me a letter back? Or tell me what you miss? And I’ll take that into account as I decide what role my blog plays for me, as a writer.

Now: off to revise.

the revision game

2009-05-04T08:32:00.000-04:00

Today’s task: Find the Narrator of Twelve Sections of Karen-Stories

What keeps this story from gelling into ONE story? Excuses:

1. The narrator is fuzzy because I was an innocent bystander and I was dumb, during the action of the story. (Not likely.)

2. Each section of this larger set of pieces has a different narrator, different tone, different tense for writing because I am Just That Many People. It is fragmented because I am fragmented. (Hmmm. Excuse. That's definitely an excuse that lets me off the hook of working at this project.)

3. There is no consistent narrator because I am such a wallflower that I simply disappear into the scenery. (Fun idea. But not reality.)

4. The narrator is all over the place in the 51 pages because I don’t yet know what I need to know. In Vivian Gornick’s terms, I’ve described and developed the situation: I worked with a magnificent and magnificently-broken woman for one year. But I don’t yet know the whole story: what happened, back there? What happened to me? What part of the story is ultimately mine?

Already I’ve learned while writing: she was more savage than she appeared, more self-serving and furious than I could’ve known at the time. This new knowledge doesn’t diminish how generous and warm Karen was, nor her strange ability to be both demanding and endearing, intensely, at the same time. I know the odd circumstances that brought us together, but what really drew us together? What did I need from her that she fulfilled so well?

The blind woman saw me, and took me seriously—I know that. I need to know more. Will I know more before this section of my thesis is due? Probably not. I’m just beginning to understand how long it takes for the writing process to work me over—it really is “the story” working on me, as I allow it. I turn the puzzle pieces over and over, for months, for a year, for more than a year. The story bothers me and nags at me and makes no sense whatsoever. Again.

What a beautiful hassle this is.

april note

2009-04-03T13:22:00.001-04:00

Hi friends and readers,

My apologies for being a) absent and b) boring for this past few months. I am just back from a 10-day academic residency on Whidbey Island. I developed a teeth-chattering fever and stuffy head on the plane ride toward Seattle—I can’t recommend “contagious illness” and “commercial airline travel” in the same sentence. So I was intensely sick for the first three days of my travels, and I only really began to recover in the final three or four days. Traveling home wore me out again and I’m just beginning to pull out of all-sleep, all the time.

Where I am in my studies: I’ve chosen a hundred pages of my creative writing for my final thesis, and now I need to revise and edit those pages. While writing new stuff. While finishing my reading requirements. Revision is “the stuff” of writing but I tend to resist revision mightily.

I expected my mentor to kick my butt around, since I’ve been too busy and unfocused this year, with my writing. But he’s very supportive, and tells me the butt-kicking is my job, not his.

Anyway, I will probably be a little scarce for awhile. I will also dive into this blog and hack stuff out, wildly and with abandon, as soon as I get a moment. So read up, now!

If you ask me questions, you know I’ll answer, of course. When I don’t blog, assume I am working.

talk soon,

Denise

lost Whidbey Island residency post

2009-03-27T08:15:00.000-04:00

The sky rarely “opens up,” here, but this morning the cloud layer lifts a bit so I can see the Olympic Range from my bedroom window. Iron gray, white. Again it will not photograph well against the gray and white cloud. I don’t feel photogenic either.

It’s Tuesday of my fourth residency, the Spring Residency on Whidbey Island, and already we are halfway through. Not quite a week ago I made my way through airport security and fought the urge to buy magazines, then I dissolved into a fevery illness on the plane, shivering and sneezing on my poor, poor neighbors.

Since arriving in The Northwest, it’s been a struggle to sleep off the fever, first, then the after effects of a head cold and profound weariness. Somehow my health does not seem to comprehend that I’m surrounded by the most fascinating people on earth, and I need to spend time with them, converse with them. With my tissues and sneezes and froggy throat, I’m most often sitting in the back, sitting more quietly than I’ve ever been at a residency. I even eat meals quickly if I might find half an hour to lie down, back in my room.

Yesterday was our “free day” to travel the area, and it was the first day I didn’t even attempt to walk to the beach I can see from my window. I chose a couch in the big Victorian living room of my house, and my classmates Alissa and Allison chose their couches, and there we stayed all day, catching up on reading and email and napping by the small fireplace. In a final burst of cabin fever we drove to town for dinner, then met others for the evening’s readings.

For more on last night’s reading by Deb Gwartney, go here:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2009/03/07/live_through_this/index.html

So I arrive at this morning, feeling better-ish, but wheezy and weary. I look through the schedule to see what I can skip: breakfast in a crowd, that I don’t need. I have half a sandwich in the frig, and coffee. Morning worship, sigh. It’s lovely and informal, but it’s another half hour I could be quiet. Skipping that might leave me with only two hours when I need to concentrate and be in a room with forty people…

Last year I was the first to pull out the Frisbee and force people to play, every free moment. This year I am hunkering in my room, hoping to get back to that beach before the week is out, hoping to go for a long walk—at least one—while I’m here in this beautiful place.

But if not, I have a bedroom with a stunning view of the mountains, some fabulous housemates, and a line-up of great classes yet to come, if I can just pull together enough energy to get out the door.

bluebird puppets

2009-03-15T14:20:00.002-04:00

Ah, the bluebird puppets! These are crafted from flat, hand-built felt (wool and mohair curls).

Talk with me if you'd like to buy some for your honey's Easter basket. $25 plus shipping.

in like a lion

2009-03-04T10:44:00.001-05:00

The wooden-bristled hairbrush in my hand finds a snarl in her long blond hair and my child screams mercilessly, stomping her feet and raising voice to a high-pitched shriek. She falls to the floor dramatically and howls that she needs an ice pack for her wounded head. I tell her to put her boots on, as she is already late and the others are waiting for her in the car. She gets herself up to go look at her head, to make sure she is not bleeding, to check to see if her tears are big enough, and then grabs violin, lunch, books, hat, coat, and bangs her head against the door in frustration—she’s not left even a finger free to grab the doorknob, and again she must rely on me. Throughout, she speaks her protest with increasing volume, she cannot carry all these things and her mother hurt her hair, and she cannot believe she is so wrongly treated. I open the door and stand outside like a doorman, until she is down the first three steps then I go back in the house, close the door, and turn the bolt lock.

I Have. Had. It. It’s not even 8 a.m.

A cold morning. I’ve been left with a list of things to do, problems to solve. There is a parent meeting tonight and I must attend. I HAVE A WRITING DEADLINE and this is my last “full” day to work on it. Fury is not a good way to write, for me—I would fight the fury in order to write.

I stomp my own feet to my closet, where my fiber arts projects are waiting in a tote bag. A week ago I fused loose layers of brightly colored wool into a rectangle of fabric—handmade felt. The colors blobbed instead of blending. I’d hoped to copy my daughter’s bluebird finger puppet, created by her long-ago kindergarten teacher. Last night I found a surprise bag of curly mohair locks, hand-dyed in varying shades of blue— I added a layer of blue curls onto the “failed” fabric, making it more perfect than I could’ve envisioned. But it’s not a bird yet. I grab the fabric bag, pencil, paper and scissors, and the original puppet. I turn on NPR, and sit at the table to trace each of the pieces onto paper. It’s an ingeniously elegant design, not “cute” but quite bird-like. I can copy the shapes without disassembling the bird.

After cutting the pieces, I needle-felt the cut edges of thick felt, so the bird will hold together well. Needle-felting requires rhythmic STABBING deeply into a foam pad—it’s an aggressive craft, perfect for the morning. I place the cut-out pieces into a project bag to take to tonight’s parent meeting, and I walk through the supply shelf to find thread, pins, a needle. I tuck the rest of the fabric away—first, the prototype must be made.

From aggressive crafting, then, to meditative crafting, which would be the spindle. It pulls all things together, truly. I blended a dozen “rolags” of wool last night while waiting for the workman to test for a gas leak in our building. I must’ve been Very Worried because the wool is airy, periwinkle blended with silver gray and a bit of blue mohair. This morning I walk through the living room, twirling the spindle and watching. The spindle crafts yarn more slowly than the wheel, so I can examine the yarn at each spin, to make sure I don’t “overspin,” as I usually do. A fuzzy, barely-spun bulky yarn. I stop with one rolag. That’s enough for now. Perfection is waiting for me, in a wooden bowl on the counter, for a word-break when I need it.

And now I’ve had a typing warm up and it’s time to open those essays again, and work on school work.

Things go well. Making crafts for Easter baskets and gifts: nests with robins’ eggs, and eggs with felt chicks. And maybe bluebird finger puppets, if the pattern seems as easy as it looks. I’ll post a photo, soon.

brief report, ash wednesday

2009-02-26T09:57:00.001-05:00

last night—
the boy finds an old math workbook with some pages unfinished, and he wants to read it. The man sleeps, weary with too many late nights. The girl finished her homework and is weaving on the loom I set up for her, some combination of yarn with bright green and pink bumps that float like confetti above the raspberry and purple. She weaves in the window. He calculates in pencil, on the couch. The sun sets pink over the harbor. Dinner roasts in the oven. I don’t need to tell you how rare the moment is…

While reading James Agee, I scratch some gritty substance on my forehead and find the ashes from the noon church service, appropriate to my reading.

this morning—
My academic/critical thesis became joyful. (Was that a week ago already?) It needs another serious edit (elegant-ish ideas with less-than-elegant construction), but the requirement is fulfilled.

I took Madeleine to New York, a lovely visit for the weekend.

Now: pull together drafts of stories for my creative thesis (100 pages), make notes on yet MORE books (six books left to read in the next month? Or five-and-a-half?) And I need to keep writing! I probably need to apply for that teaching job next fall, but I’m swamped with the present, and torn about what I want my life to look like.

This afternoon and evening will be busier, more normal, dinner thrown together on the fly. Good day yesterday, though, truly. I could use more miraculously quiet evenings—but I won’t count on them. They come when they come.

patience

2009-02-10T22:58:00.000-05:00

... working diligently on my academic thesis. be back soon.

sick house day seven

2009-02-02T10:34:00.002-05:00

If I have to be home with a sick boy, again…
… then I will be happy to have a home, so I clean (a bit—let’s not get extreme, here)
… then I will be happy to have a boy I like so much, happy to pour the ginger ale and dole out cough drops, to write down the time he took the medicine, note the next dosage

If I have to be home with a sick boy, at least the boy is feeling better. If I have to be home at least this is the best place for him, and for me. If I have to be tending a needy guy, at least the sun keeps us company, streaming in so warm I need to open the windows on this winter day.

The boy has been sick for a week, and home with me for six days of fever, coughing. Yesterday he sat up without being asked, and walked around, here and there. Last night he slept through the night without needing medicine, without coughing fits, and this morning he woke without a fever—but still very tired. The cough rumbles in his chest.

He sits on the couch sorting baseball cards this morning, after a long absence, and he’s a little miffed that I make him get his own handkerchief, his own cool drink. He asks for a third piece of toast and I fight off a celebratory dance. How long since he asked for food?

And I’m cautiously returning to normal, turning down the level of alarm (he woke at 103 degrees only two days ago, appearing to get worse instead of better). Normal, cooking a normal breakfast instead of catching a bite here and a bite there, between fretting. I think each of us feels like we are coming out of a long dark something, a long worry for me, a long time lying down for him.

My day divides into tasks I can do with a child, and tasks I cannot do with a child. I cannot concentrate to write much—some, and some sorts of writing, but not the real stringing together of thoughts for my academic work. I can take notes, make sketches, read the short stand-alone chapters of MFK Fisher’s Alphabet for Gourmets.

The deadline for the academic paper creeps closer, but it makes no sense to fight what I can do with a child, and what I can’t do with a child. Any attempt to sink into the material will be thwarted, interrupted, and my resentment… well, he is only a sick child, and he doesn’t deserve that.

I can clean out my bag, clear out my head, sort a few papers. Mostly I try to prepare for tomorrow, or for the eventual day the boy will return to school: I pick up and put away and sweep, empty the sink and dishwasher, run a bath for him. I vacuum. I push the laundry through its paces. I set out a fresh set of clothes for him, and another fresh set for me. I water the large planter’s herbs, and the small planter’s green salad sprouts.

The geranium rewards me for my fretting with two bunches of buds and two coral blossoms—I move it to the center of the table.

The child is asking for his fourth slice of toast, which means it’s time to quit even this much typing. He asks if I want to play Red Sox Monopoly—I do not. The tea kettle whistles. Time to go do what I can do. Not Monopoly but maybe a card game. Wait, he’s settling into his baseball card sorting again—maybe I can get a few emails answered, and start noting quotations.

First the toast, and the French press of decaf, and the morning.

Happy Candlemas. Each week we "gain" another quarter hour of daylight, now. And the geranium is starting to bloom. Soon we will be outdoors, walking the beach, making the switch to lighter coats. Soon.

felt flower tutorial

2009-02-01T21:16:00.003-05:00

I constructed a flower-pin tutorial last fall, only to discover that my photos were too low-resolution (I still don't know why...) I love this project and will try it again with a higher resolution!

First: find a sweater to shrink. This one is cashmere, thrift-shop purchase for $1. Cut "rick-rack." (It doesn't have to be exact.)

See? Imagine a pansy.

Sew a loose running stitch (it's yellow so you can see it better, not because I can't match, silly)

Pull the running stitch tight while rolling up the "rick-rack" you made.

Sew right through the whole "bud," close to the bottom.

Shape it-- coax it into a pansy shape.

Add a few heavy-duty stitches to secure the whole thing together. Then add a bobby pin and a leaf.

And some yellow beads.

More realistic when pinned to a child's hair.

Roses are next:

red long johns with white snowmen

2009-01-29T14:56:00.001-05:00

The boy is lying on the couch in his red long-johns, the ones patterned with jolly snowmen. His temperature finally lowers enough for him to be antsy, goofing off with the thermometer, but still looking very small.

Sunday he carefully packed the giant wheeled duffle full of snow clothes and work clothes. Monday he woke at five a.m. and tried to go back to sleep, too excited. Ready for school early, he spent a quarter of an hour watching the sunrise over the harbor in the big front window, collecting extra hugs. At one point he leapt up to hug me and banged his forehead on my tooth—I took it worse than he did, seeing stars.

Then Brendan was whisked away to meet his third-grade class for five days on an organic farm, nearly four hours drive west from here. Madeleine and Scott dropped him off at school and I settled in to meet a Monday midnight deadline.

Six p.m., Brendan’s teacher called to say Brendan fell asleep at dinner (no surprise) but when he woke it was with tears, saying his head hurt. From my tooth? I wondered. We traded notes on how I treat headaches at home. Madeleine wrote her essay on Gilgamesh at the kitchen table, while I worked on my laptop.

10 a.m Tuesday, Brendan’s teacher phoned to report a fever of 102 degrees, and another kid Will was feeling sick, too. It seems half the class contracted the flu last week. Rebecca, the other adult chaperone, just nursed her own son through this, and offered to sit with Brendan in the living room of the big farm house. He wanted to stay, in case he felt better and could feed animals and go sledding. We all thought Brendan would be more comfortable sleeping off his fever than riding in a car.

1 p.m. Giant snow and ice storm predicted for morning.

3 p.m. Tuesday, the teacher phoned to say Brendan changed his mind and wanted to come home. Will’s family was coming to pick him up, and Brendan could ride with them.

4 p.m. The phone rang again with the report that Brendan’s fever was 103.8, and did I still want him to ride in the car for that many hours? Will’s parents worried Brendan’s fever would spike higher as they traveled, but they were already packed and ready to travel. We arranged a place for me to meet along the highway.

Strange, this feeling: it seems wrong for this boy to suffer a fever so far away from me. Tightness in my neck and shoulders, tightening further. I’d need to start driving by 11 to meet them. I was ready by nine, and pacing.

I’d never seen Brendan suffer a fever like this. He sleeps through fevers, not raging like his sister, who fights fever restlessly. I asked my friend Emily to drive so I could keep him company in the backseat, not wanting him to be alone in case he was shivering or hallucinating. And I fretted. I poured Brendan’s favorite hot tea into a thermos (9 p.m.) and pretzels, chewable medicine, a blanket, then I burrowed into some internet research to escape my furious worry.

11p.m. Forced Emily to speed to the meeting point. Worried us through a highway detour that seemed endless, though it only took a few minutes, the flashing police lights made me even more irritable.

12 midnight, Got the phone call to say Will’s family had pulled into our meeting place. A turnpike toll collector told us how to go into the next town to reverse directions on the turnpike but I insisted Emily U-turn illegally. (She waited until the last possible minute, still weighing options.) No sirens, and hopefully no photos of my friend breaking the law. (She is changing her license plates today, but I don’t think that would ultimately help.) We pulled into the turnpike rest station as Will’s mom pulled the giant duffle out of her trunk, and Brendan looked at me and waved from his backseat window. (He waved!) Emily threw the trunk open and grabbed the luggage while I opened Brendan’s door. He was clutching his teddy bear and fleece sleeping bag and stuffed dog, while he whispered, “Bye, Will. Hope you feel better soon.” We settled him into the back seat. Because he is Brendan the barrage of questions was not slowed by his fever. Why are we riding in Emily’s car? Because I wanted to ride with you in the backseat, so you wouldn’t be alone. Where are daddy and Madeleine? They are sleeping in case they need to go to school tomorrow. I asked if he wanted to drink the chocolate milk he was also clutching and he said no, but it felt good to hold the cool bottle against his forehead.

“And my fever is down to 101!” He talked to me the whole way home, keeping track of the minutes that passed as Emily drove. We saw a car pulled over by the police and I told Emily she could slow down, after all. The tightness released when I saw him, and he was not listless but lucid. We would be okay, and we just needed to get home. I lowered from near-panic to simple, basic worry.

He hoped it would snow all day, he said as he climbed the stairs. But he would be sad not to shovel.

Wednesday, we woke to what would be an all-day snow, beautiful white-out. Brendan made us vow not to shovel anything, and we all agreed. By evening, rain washed most of the snow away. Brendan had a few good hours without fever, but was too tired to go out for hamburgers and fries.

Thursday is sunny with blue skies, and a boy on the couch sniffling and fiddling with the thermometer. He is not well enough to be irritable. I am reading and tidying up around the house, making him drink any liquid I can talk him into. If he must be sick, I’m glad he is here, while he is still so small. How either of us will handle the next fever away from home is anyone’s guess. But I’m glad to be here, today. And glad for him, and the red long johns he will grow out of, any minute now.

Robert Farrar Capon's Supper of the Lamb

2009-01-15T11:26:00.003-05:00

NOTE: I'm working with Supper of the Lamb for my academic thesis work-- as well as MFK Fisher.

The world will always be more delicious than useful. p 40
Permit me now to wipe my hands and introduce myself. p 3

Supper of the Lamb is my definition of the “creative” in Creative Nonfiction. It’s not memoir but the writing is personal in tone, and paints the narrator as a character, certainly. The whole book is a stack of riffs and distractions that work beautifully together in a way Capon claims “outwits the Muse.” In other words, he planned this book to be eight chapters of the distractions involved in cooking a leg of lamb for The Great Feast, or the feast at the end of time.

A pair of pale blue pages falls out when I open The Sacred Kitchen Copy of The Supper of the Lamb, a set of notes from a devotional talk 20 years ago. Three sets of notes in three different pens color the battered title page, and a bookmark in a child’s handwriting announces “buy butter for Spritz” at page 264. The original price was $3.95. It looks plain enough for a book. The yellowed book with the food stains does not look ferocious or magnificent, but it is both.

How a book changes a life—how it happens is a mystery and how to put that on paper is even more of a mystery. I’ve written the same story several times over and I never come close to telling the heart of it. A substitute professor showed up when the regular professor canceled, and he crowned the first lecture by reading a passage from The Supper of the Lamb, and tears streamed down his reddened face for joy of what he was reading. The whole course was later described as a wash, a terrible mistake because for heaven’s sake I did not receive the required lectures on the Foundations of Reformational Thought, alas! I’ve asked several classmates who scratch their heads over my description. The professor himself forgets the whole incident. “And I alone lived to tell the tale,” I suppose. The reading exists only in my memory.

But I plowed into the book in 1984 with a pencil in hand and launched from subsistence meals to life as I know it—life as I know it involves cooking and gardening and tangible pursuits of beauty. “One real thing matters more to God than all the diagrams in the world.” p 21 (Or theologies, I might add.) Real Things—God created and loves real things, real scents, real textures, real food, not ideal followers or fantasies. Prior to that reading, the world was a utilitarian place, and afterwards my eyes were opened to the seeds Paradise right here in the created order. In the pages of this book, I learned to make gravy and white sauce by reading the directions every single time I made a new attempt, until flour and butter became easy. I learned about stock, food made from scraps and the basis of all good soups.

At my spring residency, a professor invited each member of our CNF group to bring copies of a favorite passage of writing, to discuss why that piece was powerful. Alissa chose Norman MacLean, Emily chose a piece from Adam’s Task, and Alison chose Maxine Hong. I chose the exact passage from Supper of the Lamb (p 188-90) the professor had chosen so long ago. Doug’s first suggestion: when the writing process bogs down, look to see the balance of Anglo-Saxon words to Latinate words. Before I could spit “Latin?” Doug patiently added, “let’s circle the words directly taken from the liturgy—those are Latinate. Capon uses Latinate to lift and Anglo-Saxon to bring the reader back to earth. It’s a simple linguistic technique and Capon is the master of it.” Though Latin may escape me, we discussed vowel sounds enough for me to understand why some writing “sounds” Midwestern to me, why Capon “sounds” so high-church.

Supper pulls together many of my loves: I adore well-written instruction. (As a knitter, I similarly love Elizabeth Zimmerman, known affectionately as EZ in knitting circles.) I love humorous writing. I love sensual description and dizzying swoons over goodness. I love writing that flirts. And the liturgy—I didn’t know it when I first heard this passage, but the liturgy was already calling me to a form of worship deeper, older, and when I arrived in an Episcopal church five years later, I knew it already as “home.” I heard it with my own ears, calling. In that very passage of Capon, I circle “solace,” “sustenance,” “astonished,” “inconsolable,” followed by “love is strong as death” (Song of Solomon).

Five years ago if you asked me what I learned from Robert Farrar Capon, I’d have said first I learned how to shop for knives. Then I learned to cook. Then I learned to garden. Then I learned the form of worship that is my home. But all along Capon has been teaching me to look carefully at mysteries, beginning by spending an hour with an onion (page 10), moving on to how flour and butter make a roux for sauces and puddings. I learned to look, smell, create textures. I learned that a priest can make a living writing a cooking column for The New York Times, and it’s not a waste of effort that could better be spent in ministry. I learned some good clues to sexuality and those old old roles which were common before Political Correctness tried to erase them. (A woman with cleaver in mid-swing is no mere woman….A man who has seen women only as gentle arrangers of flowers has not seen all that women have to offer. Unexpected majesties await him. p. 61)

Now I will tell you Supper of the Lamb was THE toppling challenge to my lifestyle and my parents,’ which shifted me from life-as-utilitarian to life-as-celebration. I allowed myself to fall in love with the world, something I’d been wanting to do all along. Now I will tell you I learned the basics of paying attention, which is the raw stuff of writing. I learned to love extremes. (Should a true man want to lose weight, let him fast.) I learned writing does not have to be merely one thing (how-to) or another (theology). And I learned a book can change EVERYTHING in less than two hundred pages, if it arrives at the right moment of open-heartedness.

I might learn with some close attention, how Latinate words interplay with Anglo-Saxon, how some sets of sounds call to be read aloud, how a writer weaves majestic and authoritative words with plain talk, humor with high-mindedness, and every kind of riff and scrap a writer can weave into his text. Mostly, with each rereading, while I notice words and phrasing, what I read in Capon is joy. I never tire of him. I tuck back into the book my notes from 1989, which was my third re-reading of the book. What reading am I on, now? Tenth or twentieth, I’m not sure. I know I’ve managed to keep this kitchen copy when my 25th anniversary hard cover and my husband’s copy disappeared. I know the latest edition costs $14.95 and I paid considerably more for the missing anniversary hardcover. Whatever reading this pass represents, it’s not the last, and even if it was, Capon stays with me, always, like the brown stains of butter on yellowed pages.

When I find the way of writing this story that truly captures the transformation instigated by this humble-looking worn paperback, I will let you know.

sage and black, black and sage

2009-01-13T12:38:00.003-05:00

Something about winter makes me crave sameness, some flatness of detail. I have in my possession a pair of sage-colored slacks of a perfect cut, with a little stretch, with a pair of lean cargo pockets placed at an angle so that they actually look good on a woman of my shape. And I have, also, a lean ribbed turtleneck in black. One pair of black merino socks is thicker than the others and I found a pair of black wool Danskos at a local consignment shop, a few months back.

Now I ask you: why should I ever wear anything else?

I switch to pajamas at night, a black velour cardigan and sage velour slacks. I could look just about the same, 24/7!

I actually love clothes—I do! I found four new just-right ribbed turtlenecks in the pre-Christmas sales, because my brown one shows wear and my purple one sports a nasty hole under the arm. Last year no stores stocked ribbed turtles, so this year I purchased every non-pastel color available: bright pink, dark apple green, black (sigh!) and a beautiful charcoal grey. But the grey does not match the sage pants, the favorite pants, THE pants. And I don’t “feel” bright pink. The dark apple green required some convincing, and a floral scarf to make up for the green-ness. Grey, pink and green can be worn with the black slacks, sometimes, or jeans in a pinch. No ribbed turtleneck should be worn with wide-wale corduroy black pants, though I sometimes match them anyway, when I’m going out to sit at the coffee shop and I want a pair of warm slacks AND a warm neck. The closet holds plenty of winter options.

But somehow I only want to wear… my winter mom-uniform, writer’s uniform, student uniform. Sage. Black.

So my New Year’s resolution is an odd one: I will wear different clothes every day. And if I plan to see people at any point of the day, I will apply makeup in the morning, as if those people matter and as if I matter. And if I applied makeup during the day, I will wash my face before bed. In an office or store environment, all of these resolutions would simply be expectations. Here, I could get away with wearing the same thing every day, and perhaps no one would notice, but I might feel apologetic. After awhile one day bleeds into the next in my memory, no day all that different from any other.

Somehow a fresh set of clothes each day equals some sort of dignity. What kind, I do not know. I do know craving sameness of clothes and avoiding face-washing seem to lean toward depression, always a threat in the short days of winter. Perhaps this change-of-clothing thing is some sort of incantation or prayer against darkness. It’s a necessary resolution. I am keeping it.

Guess what? Yesterday I wore the green turtleneck and cords, and the day before I wore the pink turtleneck under a black cardigan, so almost no pink was showing. You know what that means? Today, I slide on the sage pants (cargo pockets!) and black turtleneck with a sigh. With my wool Danskos, my feet rest firmly on the floor and are WARM. Someday I will write a treatise on the benefit of warm feet in winter, a new element of my life in drafty New England.

But for today, I get to wear my sage-and-black uniform happily and with dignity. Even though I am writing, at home, I am ready to see people, should any appear. Already it’s a good, good day.

Today I revisited the pack of Official Documents for my masters program, as a refresher. The 15- to 20-page critical essay that will become my graduate lecture is due in five weeks, which translates to 20 “working” days with kids in school—barring kid-sickness and snow days. While polishing this academic essay I’m supposed to continue with new writing, with seemingly endless reading. Believe it or not, this “twenty pages in twenty days” is good news: I thought I needed drafts of my creative thesis (100 pages), too, but apparently those are due later in the year. I’m double-checking on that fact, later in the day.

My critical essay plays with Robert Farrar Capon’s Supper of the Lamb and MFK Fisher’s How to Cook a Wolf, to look at how each writer approaches meaning and humanity via food and hospitality. At least, I should say, that’s the plan for now. To “essay” is to try—I will have fun trying.

My next residency is in late March—SEVEN required books to read between now and then, besides more research for my critical essay. Then nine more books in late spring as I pull together 100 pages of creative writing from the past two years.

I graduate August 1, in Santa Fe. Want to come? Let me know and I’ll get you details.

And today I also sat down with a pen and wrote and wrote for hours, filling pages. Still so much to write! I know I've been a sporadic blogger, and I think it's likely to continue this way for a few more months. Thanks for hanging around.

the Monday when they all go back...

2009-01-06T20:36:00.000-05:00

Day Off:

My first job is to unwind myself from the spell of them.

The Monday after Christmas break is so full of possibilities. While Scott and the kids ate breakfast I folded and shelved all the laundry, cleared the dishwasher, put away the cookie press and all the little odds and ends left on the counter. They leave for their work, and I’m left to mine.

The first job of my first job is to restore sensation for myself, in place of intuition for others. Complete collapse is a temptation. To surf the Internet endlessly is another. All of this would be perfectly understandable. How to begin?

1-Deep condition hair with some seriously beautiful stuff. Top with a warm towel and top the towel with a stretchy wool hat.
2-Listen to a friend’s podcast while cleaning the sink and taking ten minutes to scrub that evil burned-on stuff in that stock pot, again.
3-Stretch.
4-Make The Perfect Breakfast and The Perfect Mug of Coffee.
5-Look at email but don’t take it too seriously.

6-Shower, dress warmly, dry hair lightly (for the smell). Put on makeup for leaving the house, later.
7-Goof around with some writing here, some writing there, try to describe once again the backstory to why I live here. It doesn’t come out this time, either. (It will. I persist.)

8-Pour seltzer water and orange juice. Eat a small apple.

The morning flies by.

9- Start a new book, Walker Percy this time: required and very entertaining.
10-Lunch on a bite of Provolone here, a handful of pecans there.
11-Write a thank you note to my dad and stepmom for the Christmas gifts.
12-Sit in the window and pull in any available light.

The two-o’clock bell rings and it’s time to pick up Madeleine, to check in with the other parents about their Christmas break, to say hi to teachers. Not a productive day, but a good day. The quiet is delicious. And I’ll have more tomorrow. The work is waiting for me and I’ll need to be careful about time: tomorrow. Madeleine and I run a shopping errand after school, then we take our chairs in the window to work on our homework, together.

Snowy houses on the laundry-buffet

2009-01-04T14:12:00.002-05:00

You are probably saying, "Wait, is that the $7.99 Trader Joe's Gingerbread House Kit under all that candy and icing?" Yes. $7.99 a year ago, much dust on the boxes, and $20 worth of candy this year, and much extra frosting.

(I have better photos of the houses, but they are buried deep in an argument between my camera and my computer. This photo is from Dyana! Some of the goodies have been eaten-- sorry.)

it turned out to be for me

2009-01-01T20:54:00.002-05:00

I'm so pleased with how this scarf turned out! One old skein of lavender chenille yarn and one $3.50 skein of multicolored boucle, with a little glitz. Warm. Nice texture. A wee bit of color.

Weaving makes good use of a specialty yarn and takes much less time and effort than knitting. However I can't carry a loom with me like I can carry knitting needles-- that's the only downside. Kids can weave, too-- this was woven on a Harrisville Easy Weaver for children.

december 31st

2008-12-31T23:14:00.003-05:00

Because I live on the Atlantic coast (not “near” the coast but “on” the coast) I never believe any forecast that calls for snow. Oh, it might snow two miles inland, I’ll say, but for snow here, I’ll believe it when I see it.

The bay window is a beautiful white-out, my tiny blue car buried below, my family out trekking to finish a few more errands before we hunker in for a New Year’s Eve at home. (We had other plans, but I’m Not Driving.) I’m starting to brainstorm ways to celebrate right here in the living room, or maybe sliding down the icy street from the snow ramp below our house.

I see no harbor today—I can barely see the flag flying in the boatyard half a block below. I love the filtered light, the muffled sound. I hear snowplows thundering somewhere, engines warming, a neighbor shoveling.

Three weeks ago I turned in my last packet of school work for the quarter and shifted to be Holiday Mom, the baker of cookies for the bake sale, the person who guides children through gift-making and thank-you writing, the person who can convert a European recipe for gingerbread house frosting. And these days I’m enjoying a new role as The Person Who Assists. Gingerbread houses? I hand them the kits, carefully stored from last year, and $20 worth of candy and supplies. Tree? I plunk it in the bucket and wire it to the wall, then I bring boxes of ornaments from the attic and stand back. I put the star on the top. I untangle lights. They do the rest. Cookies? I make sure the dough is the right texture for the cookie press: they can do the rest. I take photos. I admire the results. I clean up, which is a mighty task but look how much the kids can do themselves! Each year the kids grow more confident, sensible, capable, funny. I like these ages. I like assisting.

I set up the loom with enough warp for two scarves: one for a kid to weave, one for me to weave—it takes time, but I’m learning a little more every time, how to make the fabric stronger, how to make fewer mistakes, how to make the most from a skein of great yarn.

I see my family trying to steer the minivan up the unplowed street: no way. This is going to be a good one.

Happy New Year.

recipe for winter-dry hands and Christmas gifts

2008-12-15T17:24:00.002-05:00

Luxury Salt Scrub for Knitters and Other People

Madeleine is labeling the glass-topped tins, now, for gifts for all the women in her life—and a few men, too. “Place a generous pinch in the palm and rub into hands and cuticles vigorously. Helps prevent hangnails and makes hands SMOOTH.” The scrub is also good for elbows, feet, and peeling lips.

Ingredients:
Sea Salt—coarse is good but fine is also good. (I hear sugar works also, but I don’t know if it will clump)
Oil that is good for skin: jojoba, vitamin E oil, almond, avocado or grapeseed oil.
Essential oil: choose a scent you like. Lavender is very good for scrapes.

We poured three cups of coarse salt into a glass bowl and added two or three tablespoons of oil, then shook in about a hundred drops of essential oil. Stir and put in sealable containers.

If you don’t live near a health-food store, you might look at a pharmacy for vitamin E oil to combine with salt or sugar. Essential oils are very concentrated and not at all like perfume—I wouldn’t use other scents. But if you do, let me know how it goes.

WARNING: This is not a cheap project. Organic, healthy, but not cheap. A small bottle of lavender oil is $17 and my grapeseed oil was $5. Sea salt, $3. But the ingredients go a long, long way, and we use lavender oil for a number of things. We crafted 25 little tins of salt scrub, and didn’t even use a third of our ingredients. (A.C.Moore Crafts sells a bucket of “favor tins” @ $20 for 25 tins, and I had a 50% off coupon—hooray!) With more tins, we could easily make 50 gifts from these supplies.

My hands are feeling smooth, and they smell great. And my daughter has a stack of Christmas presents all lined up for teachers, neighbors, and all her grown-up friends.

looking for non-verbal diversions

2008-12-15T14:40:00.000-05:00

Hey! I hate blogposts that say "hey, I've been lame about blogposts," but never has this message been more true. I just submitted a boatload of all-over-the-place pages to my faculty mentor, who just wrote me a gracious and honest response. And I've never been tired-er of the written word.

After I submitted my end-of-quarter work, I submitted a proposal for a $9000 scholarship-- of course after I hit the "send" button I doubted the content of my application. But it's sent!

Now I find myself cleaning house madly for school vacation, which starts Friday. And I find myself spinning yarn with my spindle, remembering how much I love color and wasting time on pretty stuff. Yarn therapy. I'm reading a novel, which feels just decadent. Scott and I are watching the John Adams miniseries. Kids are preparing Christmas gifts for teachers. And I am feeling delightfully boring.

I'll write as soon as I'm recovered.

birthday poem

2008-12-12T08:45:00.002-05:00

Given to a fiery Brendan from his teacher:

The light that burns within me-- hidden, silent, deep,
It streams with power like the sun from realms of sleep.
It fills my heart with joy. It gives me strength and gladness
And lets me shine to others too, to heal their sadness.

When fire burns and I am master of this fire,
Then, pouring light upon me, Heaven's Sons inspire
My work, and I can do God's deeds as they require.

Master of his own fire: may it be so.

rare gifts

2008-12-04T19:03:00.000-05:00

The quick solution to after school hunger was a stew from last night’s roast and potatoes and carrots—cut the meat and potatoes, add a handful of peas and a cup of chicken broth… it was a good start, one small bowl each for three people.

Madeleine whined. She loved the roast last night, raved about the sauce made with red wine and red lentils. She walked to the frig and noted the pie dough, whose recipe said the dough could chill up to two days in advance. (It’s been eight days, but who’s counting?) She put her foot down and demanded to make pumpkin pie, from the ingredients we purchased for Thanksgiving, the ingredients we never used.

Let’s see, my child is insisting that she make me a pie, with a vegetable in it! Um, okay, I guess, if you want to bake me a pie, I guess I can just roll the dough out for you. I guess. Aprons come out, hands are washed. She squints at the recipe on the back of the pumpkin can.

I can’t write with them at home, so I save chores for these hours, the laundry folding, the last of the dishes to wash, the dusting. Brendan offers to help with the pie, and I demonstrate how to use a can-opener. They mix. I roll. We nibble scraps of crust and I agree they can lick the pumpkin bowl if they help me clean up.

Then Madeleine asks if she can reorganize my cabinets. Um, yeah. Brendan wants his own project and asks if he can re-label all of my jars of herbs, if he cleans them and removes the old illegible grubby labels. Is this the same guy who was dragging all through school prep this morning? The same guy who’s been so terribly stubborn? He pulls out the permanent pen, the computer labels, and goes to work. Some bottles are so old we need to guess what they were. The change is astonishing.

Madeleine finishes with the cabinet and asks if she can organize the freezer. Hmmm. Okay. She dons mittens and pulls a chair up to the freezer door.

I should go into their room right now and reorganize the desk, which is piled high with stuff, or their unmade beds, or the piles in the closet. Nah. They are capable. Besides they are tidying public spaces, and the house smells of pumpkin pie, my miraculous luck. They kick and scream over putting away their socks. I don’t understand, but I love pumpkin pie.

Time to fold more clothes. They are singing Halloween songs. Sounds good to me.

Writing goes well enough, with an academic paper in the draft stage and a creative essay in the draft stage. I attempted to teach a dozen third graders how to spin yarn today, and it wasn’t half-bad! Several kids got it right away, and some got it after some work, but they were all enthusiastic to try. Christmas prep is going okay.

Did I mention my kids are making me a pumpkin pie? All I had to do was roll out the crust. It’s coming out of the oven, now, and smelling like dinner.

quick and unimaginative update

2008-12-01T20:40:00.000-05:00

Turkey soup is bubbling on the stove.

My son is tired and grouchy, but pulling out his viola to practice. Grouchy + tired + viola, hmmm. We’ll see how it goes.

My daughter says she is finished with her bath, but is dragging her way out of the bathroom slowly. She woke howling today, convinced her teacher would be mad that she’s not finished her Native American project. She was still weeping into her waffles when I phoned her teacher for a word of encouragement. Madeleine finished her last illustration this evening without further dramatics, so the weeping can be over and the project can be turned in tomorrow.

My husband tells me he was exposed to strep throat yesterday and by the way his head hurts a lot. I’m remembering Gloucester once had a “sick house” for contagious people, on the other side of town, and suddenly that seems like a good idea. I mean, he could take a stack of magazines, and I’d bring him some chicken soup (as long as he didn’t breathe near me).

Essays and a critical essay are due in a week. I’m drafting the critical essay today.

Got a work memo asking where my report was from last Friday. I’ve never heard of the necessary report form mentioned in the memo. I asked when I should send it, and the answer was “now would be good.” Sigh.

But, I have a critical essay topic and the book seems newly salient to daily life. M. F. K. Fisher wrote How to Cook a Wolf to encourage economy and even flair among beleaguered cooks suffering food shortages during World War II. While quite dated in some parts (one recipe is for flavored tooth cleaning powder), much of the “we could all use a bit of common sense” tone could be quite useful today.

I have turkey wings, bubbling into broth.

And the viola playing is not bad.

Thanksgiving was simple and lovely, and the leftovers did not last nearly long enough.

The house we hoped to buy was pulled from the market last week, and the sellers decided (firmly) to keep it for themselves. But we discovered we can qualify for a mortgage, especially if house prices continue to lower. And the former-sellers (the non-sellers?) know where to find us if they change their mind. (Which they clearly need to do—the land has a creek, a bit of woods, a view of our favorite beach, a fireplace…)

I was typing away earlier, in my bay window in the clouds, when the sky suddenly opened up and I could see the fog sink down to the ground, and gradually pull itself away. With the sun out, my daughter and I skipped along the beach for half an hour after school, watching the waves play, a lovely treat.

Now the stars are icy clear and sparkling and I need to think of dessert for children, who believe dessert happens every day and I’m too weary to argue. I love them wildly, and they are skinny children. I am glad for them to eat. So I’d best go rustle up something. Then their bedtime, then back to my work, if I can stay awake.

That’s my quick catchup. Tell me if you need more news, and I’ll keep you posted. But most likely, I’ll write again next week, after the pages of essays are turned in.

It’s still mostly fun to be a student, even if it means studying every waking hour, trying to catch up for five days at home with the family.

Tomorrow morning, they all leave AGAIN to go to school AGAIN and leave me to my quiet. Hopefully.

2008-11-25T09:56:00.001-05:00

oh, sad news: the house we wanted was pulled from the market. disappointed.

but that means more months with the bay window, which is currently being pounded by rain.

winter twilight

2008-11-23T16:41:00.000-05:00

I forget the shortness of these winter days until I look up from the chores and my work, startled by the dwindling light. Church and church school pass in a flourish of cold sunlight, then lunch passes without me taking a moment to sit in the chair near the bay window overlooking the harbor. 3:20 finds me raising the shade in my bedroom—the last hint of direct sunlight streams through the upper corner of the window above my bed. I close my eyes and face directly into the sun, letting the glow work its way through my eyelids. By 3:29 the sun sets lower than the ridge of nearby houses, and I pull the dusty shade back into place.

By 3:40 the light no longer falls on the harbor. Soon the peninsula on the other side of the harbor will flush with warm rose-tones.

Each day is filled with its regular concerns, getting children to school on time, practicing violin and viola, Madeleine’s Native American project, Brendan’s thank you notes for birthday gifts, making sure children eat well and dress warmly. I’ve yet to find the big bin of heavy winter clothes and the outdoor temperatures are astonishingly low for this time of year.

And we are learning the ins and outs of home-buying, home-wishing, house need. We found a good house, quite possibly the right house, and are pulling together resources, learning our way around. No one is sure if we will find our way soon enough—the sellers may pull the house from the market.

Two weeks of graduate work until the end of the quarter (at least 30 pages of writing, academic writing plus creative writing), with Christmas shopping imperative, and each child has missed a day of school in the past two weeks. Laundry piles up, Christmas treasures stack up, the advent calendars and candles and mittens are still somewhere in the attic. I spend my time researching mortgages, real estate, and how to keep my small part-time job.

I will cry the day I leave this window for the last time. I will cry if that day doesn’t come soon: we need more space.

But today my glimpse of sea is blue, darkening, and filled with boats, with a wee little bit of light. There—there comes the rose-pink lights of winter sunset, lining the trees and the curves of granite, and the roofs of the houses. Next the windows across the way will glimmer like squares of fire.

I’ve been tired and tense for days. I referee one more argument about lengths of turns and toy ownership rights…

A bath is poured. Madeleine’s project is moved to a desk in another room. The squares of fire across the way change to winter pink. Evening stars emerge. I turn off the reading lamp to watch the light for one more minute or two, before we hunker in for the dark hours. 4:35, sigh. Miles to go, this evening.

Next Sunday the Advent Lantern comes out of its case. Miles to go, before then.

signs signs everywhere the signs

2008-11-22T22:11:00.002-05:00

I found this photo as I was doing some research on a house I crave.

Massachusetts' city limit signs are this shape.

(The house I crave has a creek, a little woods, and a distant view of our favorite beach. It is small and tidy, with cool neighbors. And a fireplace.)

We are looking at a house-- sorry to be so busy. More news later. But pray if you'd be so inclined.

how to write in your own home

2008-11-12T09:09:00.001-05:00

Do not look at the clock, the calendar. Do not look to see if the cell phone is turned on.
Do not notice broken objects requiring attention. Do not wonder why your daughter’s piggy bank is on the dining table before you.
Do not wonder about anything but paper.
Do not listen to the cat no matter how hard he rubs against your ankles.
DO NOT LET YOUR CHILDREN LEAVE MARBLES UNDER THE HEATER, since the cat loves marbles more than ANYTHING.
Do not waste any time being angry, annoyed, exasperated with marbles.
Do not notice the pajamas you are still wearing.
Stop drinking coffee. Now. That last cup disappeared without hardly passing the tastebuds.

Imagine sensory blinders that dull everything but the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window (do not look at it, do not wonder about a walk) and memory. Become more alive to memory than to this particular day, hour, minute, the cat batting the marble across the wood floor, finding an abandoned Pez dispenser and wrestling it under the edge of the braided rug, his favorite game, returning to the marble. Do not think about how old and dusty and ugly the braided rug is, how it needs to be replaced, how you’d like even the most threadbare oriental rug. Under no circumstances should you think about that little colonial for sale in your dream neighborhood, and the horrific list of to-do’s surrounding THAT question.

Blinders.

Okay, go get dressed in something— there’s an appointment in an hour, an appointment you intended to cancel but you can’t find the phone number, can’t find the paperwork at all from the last appointment. While getting dressed pick up every single marble wedged under the heater AND the one your cat is using to make all the noise. Shake off the sluggishness. Move the clothes from the washer to the dryer, and the clothes from the dryer can go atop the laundry basket, hidden behind the couch with every single stray object that’s been left in the living room and kitchen. Everything is out of sight. The surfaces are cleared so you can think, remember, fall into that trance, if there is time before the appointment.

Let the cat play with one more marble, just for a moment. You are not thinking. You are not sinking into a trance. Do not dwell on this. Do note the pleasure of washing your face—this new bit of self-care is a little intoxicating, no? Do note the goodness of flaxseed oil on the whole grain slice of toast—save butter for something more exotic than toast. Do pour a scant quarter-cup of coffee and dress it with milk, now that you are tasting and conscious.

Now pick up the marble, and scratch the cat behind his ears, sitting in the sunny window, the place you love. Set the timer on your cell phone, for that appointment later.

Now. Sit back at the relatively empty table, listen to the quiet, look nowhere but inward. Go.

veteran's day holiday note

2008-11-11T09:14:00.001-05:00

The morning dawns and the boy’s fever broke last night. I wake with him tucked into the middle of my bed, my husband huddled far on the other edge. If he weren’t still recovering, the boy would shove both of us off the sides with his voracious appetite for space. He’s been fierce with his bony elbows and knees since he was a baby, and today he is nine years old.

And I have a party to plan. It’s a school holiday. I’ve promised soup, a cake made of big cinnamon buns, candles, hot cider. (Need mugs, spoons, the special candles, matches, napkins…) I sit slowly, find my wooly slippers, and move toward coffee.

“So much work to do,” is my mantra these days, so much work put off, so many really important projects to attend. The birthday party is simple, the weather crisp and cold and we need hot liquids—I can do that. We are meeting at a state park, with the intent to have a treasure hunt but if we just climb, I’m not complaining. I will prevent children from flinging themselves off rocky precipices, for the most part, and I will feed them. Everything else is extra.

Grad school writing is due tomorrow. I’m researching house-buying, of all things, though that may not even be possible. (It’s a beautiful, simple place—I’ll keep you posted.) We would miss our view, but I’d love to solve our need for another bedroom just that quickly. My to-finish list is huge, bulging with details. I finished a book last night and am still mulling it for an annotation. My daughter needs a ride from her sleepover with a friend, in an hour.

Black beans are simmering. Onions and garlic and carrots are next. The cake is all set. The box fills with stuff for the party…

And I need coffee. And maybe to get dressed.

Back to you soon.

to make a leaf crown

2008-11-06T10:47:00.000-05:00

To make a leaf crown: First, apply your thumbnail firmly to the base of the maple leaf, where the stem joins. The stem should tear off easily. Layer the edge of one maple leaf on top of the next leaf and stitch downward and upward with the narrow end of the leaf-stem. The needle-stem holds the two leaves side-by-side, slightly overlapped. Use the stem of the second leaf and stitch to the third, the third to the fourth. Expect to shred a few leaves—it’s best to weave crowns while sitting in an abundance of leaves, with an abundance of time, say, while sitting at the playground.

When a dozen leaves or so are joined, measure the chain of leaves around your head or a child’s head and stitch in place with the last stem. Or make continuous leaf-chains and drape them around your neck, over the fence posts and swingsets. Admire your sweet folly: we are celebrating the temporal here. Bright leaves are here for the joy of a few days.

I look up and the bright leaves turn to rust, with no leaf crowns this year, no sitting for long hours in playgrounds. Instead I arrange rides to soccer practice and art lessons, and hope for an occasional afternoon at home with children, with a pot of warm popcorn. We catch up on homework and music practice. In my childhood we took to the streets after school, meandered the long way home, applied ourselves to puddles and bicycles and roller skates and games played in quiet streets while leaves sifted down. So much is required of these children, these days. They expect more of themselves, too, than I expected of myself as a child. I don’t know what I think about it. I do my best. I fail to do my very best, to manage my patience, to organize the time. I worry. I wish they played more, outdoors. But that would be another chunk of time to manage, another set of transitions each day. When the sunlight changes in springtime, the playground will be popular again, for another year or two if we are lucky.

What other skills will grow rusty from disuse? Someday I will not need to remind these children to brush their hair, to pack their lunches. Will they remember leaf crowns? Will they look up one day and find the golds and reds have gone to rust, without much notice?

I found a bag of large oak leaves browning behind the couch. “Anyone know what these leaves are here for?”

“THERE are my leaves!” she shouted. “Oh wait, MY leaves were bright red and yellow…” We talk about the effect of being stuffed in a bag for a week, behind the couch, poor girl. The sky darkens early, but we can still see. We walk the leaves to the compost and wish them a good winter. We pick some of the last of the summer wildflowers, still hanging on in the yard, and return indoors for a vase. We start the kettle for tea, pull out the homework, and settle in for the evening.

angel

2008-11-05T20:59:00.003-05:00

Central Park, last month.

more than one student in my family

2008-11-02T07:01:00.001-05:00

Madeleine's copy book for Botany-- not for school. This is her copy for home.

revising, reworking

2008-10-28T12:47:00.002-04:00

Learning the art of revision is the opposite of whipping off a blog-post and sending before I even spellcheck. I like both, slowness of school work and speed/immediacy of blog-posts. I LOVE the results of revision in my serious-writing for school, but I worry that I spend so much time reading, and comparatively less time writing than Before Grad School. It’s just a slice of two years, I remind myself. I can do it and it will fuel my writing for a long time.

When I look at my for-school-serious writing last year, my essays fall into three categories: I wrote about my life as a kid, my year as a personal assistant to a blind woman, and about a sailing trip. After months of revision, the story about the sailing trip grew to perhaps 40 pages of stuff, with lots of repetition and multiple versions of each scene—in other words a mess. But the story kept nagging at me so I kept writing and rewriting the scenes that troubled me. Suddenly this one proverbial “three-hour tour” began to address how hard it is to live here in this geography we’ve chosen. The story “On a Halcyon Day” became a cautionary tale, a sort of “don’t ever even think about living here” tale. I’m almost ready to give that story a final overhaul—a writing friend suggested I might pull some sections of “Halcyon Day” to form another essay or two about life in Gloucester, life in my neighborhood. Those will be cautionary tales, too. I’m reckoning with the culture of New England, which will always be alien to me, and a little sad.

One of my favorite readers of ALL the versions of my Halcyon Day story is a fellow Hoosier and a fellow student, from some similar back road near my hometown. I knew she was finishing her masters degree and I invited her to visit our beautiful shoreline. She did. And now Emily is moving here. Didn’t I just say “never live here, turn back now, woe to all who enter Cape Ann, the beautiful but unaffordable set of rocks jutting into the Atlantic?” For a year I’ve been saying that, loudly and over the course of dozens of pages.

Before she met me, she’d never heard of the place. I will be thrilled to have a writing friend who understands my workload and courses. But I’m struggling against some ghosty sense of responsibility for the corruption of the nation’s youth. “Come here and you, too, can be bashed against these rocks for a winter.”

Reminder: Emily is made of more iron than appears to the eye. And the ocean is a soothing companion in winter. And the light here can’t adequately be described. Perhaps she will thrive, this brave friend of mine. She will certainly make my life easier, just by knowing my circumstances.

We’ll figure this out, somehow, the shift from long-distance writing friends to nearby local friends. She loads up the car Saturday and will be here by Sunday night, moving into her new place, and sharing a home-cooked dinner with my family. And maybe we’ll have a cup of coffee on Monday, and unpack a few boxes. We'll start the revision process, I guess. I like revision, though it's a boatload of work. I love the results and the process is life-giving, often. Explosive sometimes. A curiosity, in any case.

Between now and then, my children need to carve pumpkins and design costumes, and I need to find a sitter for parent-teacher conferences, and to finish reading another book for school. Then another.

Friendship, changes, holiday season, recover from my own travels (Connecticut last week, then New Hampshire for the weekend), soup season, homework. Much to think about. A few things still to unearth. Much to do. First another cup of coffee, with the book I’m reading, in the window.

householding notes: neglectful home-owner repents for a day

2008-10-22T22:28:00.002-04:00

The washer is repaired after a burning-plastic smell that turned out to be… burning plastic.

The vacuum cleaner shop in town has held bags for my vacuum ALL ALONG. And they didn’t tell me. I had to find that out, myself. The guy at the counter believes I can reform my life if I just vacuum. He may be right. (He found me ridiculously amusing, but then, the guy works with small motors all day.)

My eight-year-old son repaired the flushing mechanism of the toilet, then used a flashlight to watch what happens inside that back tank for an hour (after I explained that the water in the tank is clean).

I spent the morning pouring boiling kettles of water down the bathroom sink, alternating with some mysterious white powder—only a dozen kettles later, the sink is draining perfectly.

I hauled in the giant terra cotta planter full of herbs, rooted out the faint-of-heart and surrounded my sturdy rosemary and geraniums with thriving parsley plants, mint, cilantro, and a stray violet. Inspired, Madeleine pulled out her tiny herb garden kit and seeded her planter with basil, oregano, chives, plus one leftover start of parsley from outdoors. The garden soil cleanup will be well worth it when we have green things for soup this winter! I’ve been the lamest gardener ever, my poor yard ignored while I study this year. But herbs love neglect. And they smell wonderful.

Speaking of wonderful, the last of the farmers market tomatoes made the most welcome Andalusian Gazpacho, ever.

a blip from earlier today:

The washer repairman leaves my washer in good working order, and I place the house back in good working order, as well. I lift a bundle of aprons to their hook—an apron catches the case of my son’s crosscut saw from his workbench, the saw falls onto the edge of the cat’s dish, flinging the smelly catfood somewhere. I pick up the crosscut saw and find a can-shaped lump of food stuck to the underside of the saw’s case. How likely is that? If he knew, he’d handle the saw as it were an alien. First I clean the smelly mess, then the case of the saw, then put the saw in its slot on the workbench, then the bench is shoved back to the kitchen wall under the window. Then the mat with the catfood. And the whole kitchen smells like foul fish.

Where is the cat? And why hasn’t he eaten? Oh. The repairman was here, and my cat is Invisible to Strangers. Thus: fish smell.

Perhaps it’s a good day for that new “odor-removing” candle I bought last week. I purchased the smallest size—I hope that was not a mistake.

Being a grad student is much, much easier than chores. I spent an hour at Starbucks, recovering with a stack of books. Many thanks to the working washer, drain, toilet, vacuum, herb gardens.

And the odor-reducing candle worked like a charm.

constellations

2008-10-14T22:21:00.001-04:00

I close the window against the cool night air, pad into the bedroom to find my wool slippers, the warm pajamas. I wish for chocolate, but there’s none here today, either.

Scott and the children have been away for four days—four days without cajoling anyone to do anything. My ambitious plans frittered away to the quiet, to reading a little in the big chair, to picking up a little, here and there, in the messy house. I went to a yarn-spinning retreat for a day, learning the ins and outs of my tiny spinning wheel, learned how very dirty Milo’s fleece is, still, after five washings, learned what to do to redeem that wool. It will take time.

At another point in my life I’d still be spinning that yarn two days afterward, but other deadlines call. I tuck the wheel and the wool in the back of my closet. I write, I read, I organize my mail. I read a new magazine. I finish a letter I’ve been meaning to write for a long time. I sit and enjoy the music for the first time in months, with a copy of The Best of Creative Nonfiction Journal. I pick up a friend at the airport.

What will go, when they return? Quiet will go. Lack of schedule. The absence of need. The absence of urgency. I will be happy to see them, to tuck the little ones into bed, to love them in person instead of by phone. There may be tears of frustration and exhaustion. Or they may go straight to bed.

I remember driving home in the dark, the first nights of fall, cool enough that frost bloomed on the windows of the car. I’d turn my face to the stars, breathe out a haze and draw still more stars, more constellations with my finger on the window, in my back seat, listening to my brothers sleep.

I draw no constellations on my bay window tonight, but I turn off the green banker’s lamp—I keep peeking to see if that noise is my car, pulling into the drive below. I keep imagining I hear their tired voices. I keep peeking to see if the full moon is still so large, or if it has tucked behind a cloud.

It’s hard to say if I miss my family—the quiet evenings are so delicious and long. But I keep finding myself making them up, hearing them in every movement from the street. I keep hoping the children stay asleep enough to go to school tomorrow. But I’ll keep company if they stay home. I’ll have quiet another time. I’ve enjoyed it deeply. I’ll be okay when it ends.

That sound is not my car, whew. Not yet.

blend in

2008-10-12T21:56:00.002-04:00

When friends tell me they are traveling through the midwest, I always suggest a detour through Farmland, Indiana. My hometown is not too far from the main highways, and the quaint downtown is an icon of life without traffic lights, in a small village in the beautiful flat middle-of-nowhere.

And the travelers return to me, describe their reactions as their eyes grow wide. Did they stop at the Thrift-E to meet Bob-the-butcher, as I suggested? Was he serving ham salad that day? Did he offer a sample? (None like it, anywhere, and Bob refuses to share the recipe.) Did my traveling friends see the old wooden floors, aisles sagging a bit with wear, and the long pull-strings on the florescent lights?

More often my traveling friends stop by the upscale coffee shop, where the owners roast the beans themselves, and customers can sit at a polished bar with a latte. My friends bring me back a bag of my favorite Columbian. And everyone steps in The Chocolate Moose for a fancy ice cream—it was a practical “drug store” when I grew up. Now it’s for out-of-towners, mostly, and special occasions. The travelers didn’t know such places exist outside of movie sets.

Then we parse their astonishment. Didn’t I tell them it was a small town? Yes, but they didn’t expect it to be that small. Most people describe themselves as being “from a small town.” They think they know what a small town is. And then they drive through my small town—so small the definitions change. So odd it’s undeniable. I have a great affection for the place. But then I moved away 25 years ago, and affection is easy from the distance of a thousand miles. (It would be even easier with Bob’s ham salad.)

Thus my New York sojourn leaves me baffled, mystified. The city never ends. The weather outside is slightly cool, perfect, thus the trains, the buildings, even the Starbucks in Manhattan are ALL MASSIVELY OVERHEATED. Do city people hate themselves? Or do they just dislike me and want to punish me? Everywhere else I go in the world, J.Jill is a nice brand of clothing (I packed ALL J.Jill except for my Ex Officio travel pants), but in NYC I feel underdressed, careless, and every change of clothes is sweat-through after even a short ride on public transportation, or a short moment in an office building. The convention offered a free mini-makeover, which I accepted, but eye makeup makes me look dreadfully old, as though I’m trying Very Hard, and my eyes sting and turn red the next day. My hip Haiku bag is very summery, and it’s fall now. Blah, blah—in Boston, would I care about any of these things? In New York it’s fall and everyone is wearing tall black boots with low heels. And I kind of wish I was wearing them, too. (I outgrew my tall black boots with low heels when I was pregnant, and I miss them terribly.)

Haven’t I shrugged this slight discomfort off, the last ten times I’ve been in New York? Did I even notice it?

I really can’t blame Farmland, Indiana for my fashion-discomfort, or even for the piece of hayseed in my hair. I didn’t blend in well there, either. Is "blending" a skill I'm missing? Or is the real skill in feeling "at home" in the world? If only the real, real skill was missing the things I love so dearly, like Bob-the-butcher's ham salad, and that set of brick Victorians at the no-stoplight intersection, Main Street Coffee, Farmland in the autumn months, the perfect months for wearing flannel shirts and jeans and having no one notice anything, ever, at all.

2008-10-06T16:10:00.001-04:00

the blog is on!

report

2008-10-06T11:33:00.003-04:00

I'm in New York! Things are going well-- BUT some snafu keeps the magazine blog from updating. Rats!

I'm making notes throughout the day, and perhaps we'll get the posts online later in the day.

professional experiment

2008-10-04T10:30:00.002-04:00

I’ve taken a one-day magazine assignment to do “live blogging.” And now I realize this is a mistake because I’M DREADFULLY BORING.

I’m going to take a shower, sort my clothes and start to pack, while I consider my boring self. Writing has been such an enormous adventure for the past four years—how do I say this without sounding a) naïve, b) naïve like a fluff-head, c) like a clueless housewife who doesn’t get out much? Or worse, naïve-seriously-naïve.

Monday I will be live-blogging in New York. First I will carry my laptop (my most valuable possession) around the New York City subway system in a simple messenger bag, trying not to radiate the word “victim,” trying to look like I carry my most valuable possession every day and I never worry about it, and trying not to break my shoulder. Next I will walk into a hall full of well-dressed skinny women who are about to master the world, and I will subsequently remember that I’m from Farmland, Indiana and I’ll check to see if I’m wearing bib overalls and pigtails, or if my forehead reads “hayseed.” (It might. No way to avoid my wonderstruck-face.) Third I will say I’m headed to the green room for my press pass. Fourth I’ll figure out what to wear without sweating—jacket? No jacket? Fifth I’ll remind myself to eat something healthy so I don’t pass out. Sixth I’ll try to talk professionally, calmly although I’M SO EXCITED I COULD BUST. Seventh, I’ll try to feel EVERYTHING and write from the heart, which is what I’m hired to do.

The trick: how do I bring my whole life experience, in all its seriousness, to bear on a day blogging in a posh hotel? We all know I’m not dumb. How do I sound not-dumb while writing on-the-fly?

If you are a praying person, or a meditative person, ruminate with me and remind me who I am, that my story is worthy of attention. (It is worthy of MY attention. It’s my job to voice my experience as best I can.) Writing is a form of prayer, and what I need to do is to pray, and pray deeply, and to listen for the rumble below the crowd noise, feel the solidness of the earth even though real soil may be far, far below the floor. I need to listen for what others need.

Shaking off the nerves, packing a suitcase, remembering where I’ve come from and who I am, wondering how on earth to write this, for these people, tomorrow and Monday.

And maybe for you the day after.

not exactly a normal day in the life

2008-09-30T20:23:00.001-04:00

My son saws away at Old MacDonald on his new school viola. Madeleine interrupts her reading to tell me about the new “book groups” in her class, and how she chose which book to read but she will probably finish the book TONIGHT. What do book groups DO? She and I talk about taking notes and writing down questions as you read: she’s ready to be a grad student, too. The dishwasher is filled after a dinner for three, grilled tenderloin and asparagus, red peppers and potatoes. I wish we ate so well every day—good to have a break from the rains, so we can cook outdoors again. I ignore the beach gear, still stacked to one side of the porch, poor lonely toys.

Brownies bake too slowly—my kids’ dessert project now seems a worry, since the oven does not seem to be working. Whether or not we eat them with a spoon, the scent is… just like baking brownies, very, very good. The autumn air smells almost as good, through the open windows.

Today is a normal writing day in my student life, meaning I type out quotes from my library books and erase the pencil markings, revise my book-annotations, assess where I am in the reading and writing assignments. I do my magazine work for just a few minutes—the past week has been hellish, responding to political blasts from readers, but today seems relatively tame. I make several fresh attempts at writing an essay on election years and existential nausea. I do the thing I rarely do—rip out the meandering attempts and shred them into the recycling. The thoughts still need to churn awhile.

Then I get an email asking me to cover a women’s conference in New York, for a magazine, to blog about my experiences while I’m sitting in on the conference. The speakers include movers and shakers in the world, coaching on life choices, career choices, vision. My only worry: what will I WEAR?

Madeleine now recites the creation narrative of India in Sanskrit, “in the beginning there was neither existent nor non-existent.” Brendan moves into bath time, singing a song about Saint Mi-cha-el, hero of the brave. Madeleine moves her Sanskrit to the oven door to check the now-incalculable brownies.

You know me: full-time student, part-time slacker mom, typing while my children settle into evening. Scott arrives home late, and I stop to talk him through his late dinner, which he must grill himself. Slacker-wife. Celebrity blogger. Grad student who just finished one volume of Proust. Fashion plate, ready to be photographed… NOT. My curls peek out of an up-do this evening, pulled aside earlier in the day. Lipstick long worn-off. Let’s see, must buy a smidge of mascara and a new lipstick, must do that hand-washing, must ignore the beach-gear for other callings. Must think how to pack.

… and what to take, to read while I travel next week. Playdates to organize, Sunday school to teach, and I really, really need to get in a walk or two while the weather is still good. Tomorrow.

A good day, though, today. The brownies finally harden up, and they taste just fine, served warm with milk. Madeleine writes me a letter in code. Brendan tries to sing while brushing his teeth. No one wants the day to end except maybe me. My daughter’s note, Dear Mom, I am fine. How are you? I quickly write back in code, I am ready to sleep. She takes the pencil and writes, I am, too, followed by an exclamation point. I am, too.

nearly proof that I am reading...

2008-09-26T16:31:00.002-04:00

Just add coffee.

Oh, and maybe I should open the book.

Just me and the laptop, in the bay window with the rain.

And Proust.

The Madonnas of Leningrad: rave and review

2008-09-26T09:24:00.002-04:00

She is packing Belgian Delft porcelain, each painted with a different scene, when she notices a spot of red in the pattern, painted in the doorway of a house, and wonders if that has a religious connotation. In the next Delft teacup, she sees a small dot of red in a koi pond and wonders why she’s never noticed a touch of red in any other Delft teacups. By the third teacup she packs, she’s marveling at this new reality—then she realizes she’s been packing china with a nosebleed, without sleep and without a break, for days, and of course she’s hallucinating those droplets of blood into the patterns because she lives in an altered state. She is a museum docent in The Hermitage, packing artworks for removal to a safe place, assuming Leningrad will endure beyond the World War. She later describes these red droplets and her confusion to her boyfriend, shaking her head over her confusion. Then the war begins in earnest and confusion is an ongoing state. A sane woman becomes prone to visions occasionally, and most of these visions feed her soul.

I’m a nonfiction writer; I love reading fiction. This “love” is a small word—I am enthralled, transported, barely able to focus on life in the everyday world, while I am reading an engaging novel. My continuing quest is to discover what makes good fiction so satisfying, and to discover ways my nonfiction might approach that level of readerly satisfaction. I don’t think it comes close, most of the time, and I should say, “at least not yet.” Some nonfiction reading brings about the same trancelike absorption.

Debra Dean’s The Madonnas of Leningrad blends a number of devices I love: a past narrative that tangles into a present narrative, a tour guide persona (I’m a sucker for tour guides and educators), children’s blank-faced confusion over who their parents really are. I’m a bit nervous about magical realism to any degree: I am a nonfiction writer and I stick to the truth doggedly. But magical realism makes complete sense within the context of altered physical states such as starvation, post-traumatic stress disorder, and ultimately Alzheimer’s.

What I love? Disorientation, rendered plausibly again and again. Subtlety within this frame—the narrator is losing track of distinctions between present time and an exotic past as a pre-WWII tour guide in The Hermitage. Is she “lost” momentarily because she is starving? Because she is shell-shocked? While she is lost and shell-shocked, all she sees is beauty, and in some way she is able to conjure beauty for others, entirely from memory. What I love also is elegance in story line.

What might I learn from this gorgeous novel? Paintings in the museum reflect personal realities for the narrator, and the stories within the paintings become inextricable from the narrator’s life. The absence of transitions between paragraphs about the past and paragraphs about the present—this is a technique absolutely perfected in this book. The narration itself reflects the disorientation of the main character, and how her past and present layer over one another. When I might “use” this in my nonfiction, I don’t know, but it provides a lovely way of knocking the reader off-guard. Dean also creates a fog of questioning: what is real? Of the available realities, what is the MORE real? What happens when the “real story” is implausible to others? Sometimes the real story, in nonfiction, is so nearly unbelievable.

In review of The Madonnas of Leningrad, Debra Dean’s work manages to be both rich in its lavish descriptions of art and restrained in its drama. She avoids resolution of questions about the main character’s life: was that real? How much was real? We all experience the same questioning of our own memory and of others, and yet in Dean’s book, it is this very “palace of memory,” no matter how faulty, that powers a young museum docent through Leningrad’s three year siege, and a pregnancy that seems miraculous in the face of starvation. The descriptions are tangible, realistic and stable through the first half of the book, with few foreshadowings of an “unreliable narrator.” By the time the unreliability is notable, I’m already absorbed into compassion for Marina, for her confused daughter, for her grieving husband.