Write Me a Letter

This morning, I met with my First Book friends recapping recent events like a wine tasting where we drank wine (oh – and raised money) and a literacy fair where we gave away lots of books to kids. Both were successful and even more importantly, fun. Two of my favorite things: wine and books. At our meeting I offered to write a handful of thank you letters. Afraid I’d forget about this if I did not write them immediately, when I got back at the store I found a pen and stationary and sat at my cluttered desk.  I wrote these letters on beautiful, plain paper. By the time I was done with the third one, my hand was cramping. Beyond signing my name or scribbling a quick note, I never, ever write and the necessary muscles seem to be atrophying.  And they looked like they were written by a 4th grader as if each successive word were climbing a little hill across to the other side of the page – slanting up.  Supposedly that’s an indication that I have a positive outlook on life – true – but that doesn’t make for a lovely looking letter. Still, it counts for something to have someone handwrite a note these days so I folded up the letters and mailed them, quirky penmanship and all.

I won’t moan about the demise of letters and all that — I actually prefer the immediacy of email — even texting. But I did used to love getting letters when that was the only option, so wrote them regularly myself, sometimes pages and pages. And I saved most of the letters I received so boxes of yellowed envelopes are in my basement – if any old friends are looking for a glimpse into their past. Two friends of mine still write me – at least one fantastic letter a year: Jane in England and Jenny in Australia. Usually, just after New Year, they send out at least a page or two written to ME – not one of those dreadful group letters. I love these letters, and love that I recognize their handwriting. At certain points, we all shared at least one mailbox – Jenny and I shared a house in Japan and Jane, in Kentucky and later, also Japan. We all had the same rush of excitement when we heard the metal drop of mail being delivered to our house, the thrill of a glimpse of white through the slat of the box — letters!

Later on in the afternoon today, an unbelievably calm and endearing customer whom I had told last week about my latest agent rejection (sigh – and it seemed so close!) gave me a beautiful pen with a note of encouragement. This was after I’d written the thank you letters.  So there you have it: time to write a letter — at least two — one to Jane and one to Jenny.

Believing in Spring

A deceptively bright, Sunday morning — officially spring, but still winter cold. Tetley and I do our morning wander down the street serenaded by birds. Different songs than the desperate beeps and chirps of winter. It’s mating season and the Mourning doves and Cardinals are in full swing of seduction. Sparrows have already moved into one of the bird houses and Robins are everywhere. But at least at this early hour, it’s still cold.

Last week it snowed – burying the mini Daffodils and other blossoms that so bravely appeared a  week ago. The croci wound themselves up like little torpedos and by the afternoon, the white stuff gone, heroically opened up again. Little hand shaped leaves of lupine emerge hopefully along the sunny bank beside the driveway, and on the slope just beneath them, the strawberry plants seem to be spreading by the day. I have meant to read up on what I should do with them — although last year’s harvest was brilliant, in spite – or maybe because of, my neglect.

I began some early season garden tasks last week with very serious pruning.  After a quick computer reference (my poor garden books gather dust) I grabbed my lobbers and shears and ruthlessly cut back the Roses, Autumn Clematis, and Butterfly bushes and grapes, to mere sticks. I love how these plants climb up the side of the house and across our backyard arbor. Tangled in the trellises and half-way up the chimney, they already had such a great head start. So I paused before cutting, but cut them I did, leaving scrawny sticks against the house and piles of thorny branches across the lawn. A gardening leap of faith for the future.

Making Nice

My natural talent for being a wise-cracking asshole was tempered by my years working for the United Nations. After serious training, I learned how to avoid offending people from around the world – it was a job requirement.  On any given day, I spoke to 100 + people who came for a tour of the UN.  Leading my flock through halls and meeting rooms, I spouted the latest Security Council resolutions condemning either Israel or South Africa (this was the 80s) and hedging my way through questions posed by irate visitors about why the UN would not intervene in Tibet or Northern Ireland. Uncomfortably, I lectured Japanese tourists in my abysmal Japanese, about the importance of nuclear disarmament while surrounded by melted artifacts from Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I learned to deliver the information – passionately, but without personal opinion.  This meant no smirks, frowns, glee or embarrassment – unless officially sanctioned by the international community.

It wasn’t easy. I’m pretty opinionated and used to delight in verbal sparring. Sometimes, still do. But to this day, I value the skills I picked up in those international rooms. One key to maintaining a mask of control and fending off potential conflict is to have a script — a few non-commital words expressing whatever the neutral party line is. This still comes in handy. Just the other day, someone cornered me at work wanting to know what I thought about the competition shutting down in the next town. “It’s always sad when a bookstore closes.” I said. And while this is true in theory, in reality, I think: better them than us — I sure hope that we get a bump in business comparable to the hit we took when they opened.

Often, being diplomatic can just mean keeping your mouth shut, and that really doesn’t come easily to me. I have only gotten fired once in my life – from a waitressing job when I was in college. Too many years have passed for me to recall the exact exchange, but a customer was rude to me and I dished it right back. In retrospect, I admire that gal but today, I need my day job.

Keeping my mouth shut was a skill I really got to practice in the war zones of former Yugoslavia. You don’t want to piss anyone off when Kalashnikovs are around.  A neutral smile, courtesy and a United Nations blue passport were all useful in getting through checkpoints manned by sometimes drunken Serbs, Croats or Bosnians. This discipline of not inflaming dicey situations still helps me today: I avoid road-rage incidents on Route 1 and can defuse the instinct to punch the lights out of unpleasant customers in the bookstore. I think a certain amount of public neutrality is common sense – who wants their window smashed by a right-winger offended by a ‘Planned Parenthood’ or ‘Support Our Soldiers: Bring them Home’ sticker?  The only bumper-sticker I have on my car says “READ”.  I think that’s safe.

 

News of the World

Disturbing world events cloud the bright spring light. Beyond sending money to the Red Cross and thoughts to affected friends, I feel powerless. Worried about Japan and now Libya and anxious for word on the 4 missing New York Times journalists, I check the news almost obsessively. In recent years, my dose has been kept to a minimum fix of BBC, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert – but these days I find myself switching wildly between the network news stations. Tricky how commercials are timed to run simultaneously – the mute button the only way to avoid the advertising bombardment.

When I lived in Croatia and Bosnia, CNN and the British, Sky News were the only available international new sources.   I appreciate the 24 hour-ness of CNN – but what’s with the scary, music constantly playing as the news people talk? And the bizarre touch-boards of maps and charts? Colbert and Stewart have spoofed this high-tech nonsense, so now, when John King enlarges, shrink, circles and stars, images of the Japanese nuclear plants, it seems comical – although the subject is anything but funny. It’s too much – the constant sound effects and nerve wracking music amping us up to “Be afraid! Be very, very afraid!”, not so subliminally. Flipping over to BBC, a perfectly nice and normal woman with a too-shiny purple shirt (obviously, and refreshingly they seem to have no wardrobe people) sits at her desk and delivers the news, shifting, without fanfare, to field correspondents. No charts, no holograms. Same thing with the PBS stations – while sometimes soporific, they just present straightforward news. Everything is scary enough these day, we don’t need these guys yelling at us.

I feel a little guilty looking away from it all and feeling pleasure at the shift of the seasons out of winter. But there is so much to be done in the garden and family and friends need attention – and it is okay to feel the joy in this. Didn’t I learn that already? In any case, I need to catch up on things. Like clearing last year’s leaves, planning this year’s garden. And yesterday, I was reminded about — forgive me for being so mundane — clothing.

Although only March 18, yesterday turned into a weird, way-too-warm, too-early day. Dressing for work in the dark morning hours, I pulled on wooly socks, corduroys and a sweater. By the time I left the bookstore in the afternoon, everyone was in shorts and flip-flops. How did they make the switch from winter fleeces to summer frocks so quickly? My plastic bins of summer clothes are buried in the basement and the shifting-of-the-clothes is a major weekend undertaking.  Anyway, although I can see from my window, a patch of  daffodils in bloom, I am cautious and will not bury my sweaters just yet.

Japan

I cannot stop looking at the apocalyptic earthquake-tsunami images out of Japan. Cars on houses, buildings being swept away, boats hammering against bridges. Muddy survivors clutching buckets of belongings or worse, nothing at all – losses palpable. The luckier ones, hold tight to children, friends, neighbors. Heartbreaking. I cannot turn away. And now, the horrible specter of nuclear disaster. Terrifying.

I know these people – while I have never been to this corner of Japan – I recognize faces and those houses smashed under salty debris are familiar to me. None of my friends are there – and while relieved to be spared the pain of personal loss, I mourn for this place, once my home.

Creativity Manifest

For years I considered myself a visual artist. I have a basement full of work as evidence. Paintings at least, are easier to store than sculptures. I have two very large wood pieces I carved in Japan, propped up in our tiny living room. They are superb dust collectors. I remember chiseling away at them for hours outside my little house in Kyoto. The wood is eucalyptus and carving released potent oils into the air.  My sinuses were always clear.

Believe me, I am even less delusional about my talent as an artist than as a writer, but I do have some pieces I like living with — like those big, old chunks of wood. But I don’t miss the stuff necessary to paint or sculpt or the ‘stuff’ (now art?) you are left with when you are done. What to do with it all? When my artist friends and I go to the Catskills for our week of retreat, it takes them many trips to unload the boxes of supplies and un-wieldly pads of paper and canvas.  I get to prance upstairs with my laptop. Okay… and bags of books I think I’ll read and don’t. The process of writing is so streamlined compared to the visual arts. And in the end, finding and settling into the place where creating comes from, and staying there for as long as possible, (ah, those summer retreats!) feels the same bliss to me.

Well, almost. Sometimes, I miss the smells, the excitement and immediacy of making something. The physicality of ripping up paper for collages, the trance-like state of carving a piece of wood. The really gut feeling when something works – the incredible, physical burst of energy when I can’t stop working on the thing. It comes from a different place — a place I haven’t been to in a long time.

I made a stab at getting back to work when M was about 5 or so. The painting in this photo is one of those. I have no memory of the title of the piece or where it is now.  I suspect it is buried with whatever paints I still have left. I really don’t like it, so if it is in the basement, it’s staying there. I see on that canvas and in my eyes, a miserable heart being smothered. I remember standing in that bank where I hung my paintings in the hope I’d sell something — a finger in the dyke of financial, spiritual and emotional chaos of living with an addict.

Maybe this summer, I’ll pack a small box of supplies and re-visit this visual-art territory again just to see what comes out. I wonder – will my happier state translate into a better painting?

Dahlias

I’m a sucker for email seed and plant offers.  Dahlias — that’s what I bought this morning. What a deal! Apparently critters don’t like them. The problem I foresee is that you are supposed to dig them up at the end of the season and store them.  That’s a stretch for me — especially because by the time autumn comes around, my gardening energy is on the wane and I’m more likely to catch the last days of kayaking than to remember to dig up bulbs. But maybe this year will be different — and in any case, they were on sale.

Dahlia’s are a big deal in Japan. I remember pedaling my bicycle through the narrowest of old streets in Kyoto – and squeaking my brakes (all bicycle brakes seem to squeak in Japan — better than a bell?) stopping to marvel at blossoms the size of plates growing in pots lined up outside a rickety house. Oftentimes, the usually-ancient gardener would be out tending their prize worthy plants.  This year, I will try these myself – filling my own boxes to tend on one of the decks Rob attached to the house over recent years.

It’s almost March — enough snow has melted so I can see the snowdrops popping up down the street and warm enough this morning that I could smell the earth and I’m thinking garden again.

Television

I have a quick fix for not having enough time to write or read: do not turn on the television.  We’re not bad in my house – we will go days without watching TV and on Sundays, it’s banned until after 5 PM. The rest of the week, we rarely turn it on before 7:00 and then, it’s me who’s the culprit, switching on the BBC to follow the latest international calamity. We have effectively bullied M into not watching much boob-tube when we’re home and if she does, it’s set so low, our deaf ears can barely hear it anyway. And canned laughter is forbidden. That works because she mostly watches CSI and medical mystery stuff. She recently pointed out that our favorite programs, John Stewart and Stephen Colbert have the same laughter tracks.  No, it’s a live audience, I pointed out.  But it sounds the same, she retorts. And it does. But the difference is, we’re laughing too, so it’s not irritating to us.  A benefit of the parental role is hypocrisy like this.

Anyway, once the idiot box is on, it’s hard to turn off. Let’s see what Lidia’s cooking tonight, then Jacques Pepin. Because we can record shows, we feel like we are efficient in our viewing – fast-forwarding through commercials cuts down on at least a third of the time.  True-confessions: we are American Idol fans. Embarrassing, I know.  I’m also addicted to whatever Masterpiece Theater show is out there, although I usually watch that alone and I’m way backed up. The Office is a family favorite and a new favorite is Parks and Rec.  That’s about it — but there you have it — the evening is shot, swallowed up by TV-land.

And the worst part is, television is completely soporific for me and I rarely stay awake beyond 9:00 PM. I can if I am reading or writing, but on the couch, in front of the television I just conk out. If Rob is there beside me and holding my feet as he sweetly does, I sleep to The Simpsons or Nova soundtracks (his favorites) until I can force open my eyes just wide enough to stumble upstairs. This image of myself reminds me of my father when I was growing up — always falling asleep on the floor in front of some mystery series or Columbo.  “Why don’t you go to bed, Dad?” we’d urge. Probably because we wanted to change the channel.  He’d rarely leave, instead rallying for a few more minutes after our harangue before his head would wobble down to the pillow, us kids cracking up at his snores.

Return of the Robins

Robin Red-breasts flitted about on the branches as Tetley and I walked along the wooded stretch this morning and although we are still in a deep-freeze, it feels like we’ve turned a corner. The light lingers longer each day and I turn my face up in grateful ecstasy towards the heat of the sun. Yes, mountains of filthy snow will likely linger for months, but there are swathes of ground visible — packed, frozen earth I can imagine soon turning to mud. Oh, I know it will be close to 2 months before spring really arrives, but these small harbingers and a week without snow have lifted my spirits – believing now, that there are lighter, warmer days not far ahead ahead.

I aspire to live in the present, to remain alert to the moment with all my senses, my heart and mind.  Buddhists, my sculpture teacher – Mike Skop and common sense have all steered me towards this as a core spiritual and creative practice. But what about when life really sucks? I think of my friend simultaneously battling cancer and a broken heart and all I want to do is fast forward her out of her shitty present to brighter days I feel sure are ahead for her. I don’t want her to have to ‘be here now’ – but she is and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. The pain of our loved ones is awful to watch.  As always, I turn to books and remember that during some of my darkest days When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron , (find a beautiful excerpt by clicking here) was like my survival manual.  Reading this piece again, I am reminded to embrace the moment, as dark and cold as it may be — but I still welcome the Robins back to the neighborhood and wish for spring.

Another Winter Day

I hesitate to write about the grueling winter, but it may be the only way forward for me, out of the paralysis I feel waking to leaden skies and polar temperatures. Every day of relentless cold, ice, snow – is depressing to the point of being debilitating, and I am curling farther into myself, physically, mentally and spiritually.  I feel pinched – as if I am collapsing into my chest.  I force myself to breathe deeply, shoulders back, stretch. Nothing to be done but carry on, feed the birds, cook, read and mark the days inching towards spring. February, at least, is a short month and the seed catalogues arrive almost daily.

The plows have piled more than 5 feet of snow on top of my strawberry plants – it’s hard to imagine they will survive – but they will and so will the purple sage and all the spring bulbs that bravely push through the last of the frosts. I try and always have a hyacinth or bunch of daffodils on the table as a fragrant reminder for what’s just around the corner. Really. And just for fun, I will inevitably over-order seeds to sow directly in only a few more months and maybe pre-order some heirloom tomato plant collections. The best seed deals and choices I’ve found are Pinetree Seeds of Vermont and Select Seeds from Connecticut.  While sometimes I am enticed by catalogues from Wisconsin or Oregon, it just seems to make sense to get seeds for my Connecticut garden from New England.

I cook.  A recent favorite is a recipe on one of my favorite food blogs, The Wednesday Chef: Zuni Cafe’s Chard and Onion Panade. It’s comfort food extraordinaire. I erred on the side of lots of stock but would use less next time in the hopes that the consistency wouldn’t be quite so soupy. And maybe add a little wine?  Definitely more greens rather than less.  Yum.

Also whipping through books.  David Mitchell’s The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, while exquisite reading was at first a little slow for me but is now a page turner and I’ll certainly finish this weekend. After reading last Sunday’s sobering review of memoirs in the New York Times Book Review, (“The Center of Attention: Taking stock of four new memoirs – and of the motives for adding to an already crowded genre.”) I read the title reviewer Neil Genzlinger did not pan: An Exclusive Love by Johanna Adorjan and agree with him. It’s beautiful. The author’s poignant exploration of her grandparents joint suicide is like watching a riveting Bergman film — vividly drawn scenes and characters. No surprise the author has written for theater. I was drawn to this, of course, because of the suicide – but while the suicide is certainly a theme driving the story and the damage-done apparent in the author being haunted enough to pursue her questions (it is the questions we survivors are left with), ultimately it is a beautiful love story. And we know the author/survivor, has found her peace.

Genzlinger writes at the end of his memoir reviews: “…what makes a good memoir – it’s not a regurgitation of ordinariness or ordeal, not a dart thrown desperately at a trendy topic, but a shared discovery. Maybe that’s a good rule of thumb: If you didn’t feel you were discovering something as you wrote your memoir, don’t publish it. Instead hit the delete key, and then go congratulate yourself for having lived a perfectly good, undistinguished life. There’s no shame in that.”  I’ve re-read this a few times over the past week – a challenge to myself.  I did not hit delete. It’s just a long, cold, winter – but spring is on the way.

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