Category: Uncategorized

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.

Birds

The front yard flutters with birds.  A dozen sparrows rise from the hedge, swarming the suet cages.  A solitary chickadee is driven away. A male cardinal swoops in, lending a pizzaz of color to an otherwise sepia scene of snow, branches, sparrows. As if on cue, they all take off and the chickadee returns, followed by a tiny woodpecker and then, more chickadees – they must have sent the bravest one out first to recce the situation for them.  Yesterday a larger woodpecker showed up – magnificent pattern of black and white  on his body and a perfect stroke of red from the crown of his head down to his shoulders – as if an artist had brushed it on. Then, a dozen grackles surrounded the pecker and one of them faced off with the formidable beak of the woodpecker, bobbing his head threateningly. Out-numbered, the beautiful one took off.

We know, (we think) some birds from past seasons. Two summers ago, a cardinal nested in the rose bush growing against a window in our sunroom, hatching 4 eggs – undisturbed by the constant human and canine activity a pane of glass away. She seemed to be a single mother – nurturing, feeding  – alone.  When she left the nest, we peered through the window for a close-up of the bizarre looking hatchlings. One day, we were alarmed to see one, now feathered but still tiny, standing out on a thorny rose branch, unable to get back to the nest. Rob went out and gently put it back with its siblings. Later that afternoon, it was teetering again, now on an even farther branch and this time, he fell into the flowerbed below. Again, being sure to keep Tetley in, Rob retrieved the downy creature and returned it to its nest. Soon, with the mother rarely in sight, they all were taking the leap to what we were sure would be their death to predators or starvation. Really, the mother was never far away – we heard her chirps and caught glimpses of her in a distant tree – and soon, tiny cardinals flitted about the garden. A poignant speed lesson in child rearing.

We imagine them out there now, this little family, plucking seed from the feeders along with Woody, the downy woodpecker that on another summer day, (it helps to think of them during this brutally cold and snowy winter) took a wrong turn and became trapped in the sunroom. Again, Rob gently cupped his hand around the petrified creature and released ‘Woody’ (as he christened him) back to the sky. And yesterday Wren – who we always welcome back to one of the houses attached to trees and posts in the back, landed on the sill. She seemed to be sussing out whether or not to build a winter home behind some wood we’d left against the window.

Sometimes, a shadow falls across the snow (oh, so much snow!) and the birds clear-out as the neighborhood raptor swoops dramatically across the yard. We love seeing this majestic bird, although I hope he finds his meals elsewhere.

This quiet Saturday morning, I make another cup of tea and put my feet up on the steamy radiator. I have been here for more than an hour and will linger longer — look!  A nuthatch and two junkos arrive — and with a weird flash of green, one of the neighborhood parrots also joins the fray. At this moment, winter seems lovely.

Thoughts on Grief

Walking the dog this morning, the brightness of the rising sun reflecting on snow combined with the biting cold air, made my eyes water profusely. In case a neighbor was looking out the window, I wiped my face and yawned hoping to make it clear, mine were not tears of grief. Why was I concerned?

Most of us (an exception I think of is a certain political weeper) prefer to be private when it comes to crying. An empty room, the beach, a forest – where I can see no-one and no-one can see (or hear) me – are my preferred settings for out-right sobbing. Why do we usually want to hide — almost as if it is shameful or embarrassing — our grief? After all, little inspires compassion and generosity in others more than being witness to someone else’s suffering, so why do we usually prefer to be private in our sadness?

Retreating into solitude seems to be instinctive and I think it crucial we sit with, look at, delve into the dark recesses of mourning, but I also believe in the comfort found in meeting with others who share like experiences. I vividly recall, from many hours spent in survivor groups, finding at least temporarily, a sought-after peace from sharing the gamut of emotions, tears and laughter with a roomful of almost-strangers.  I am not really a ‘group person’, preferring to go it alone in most things, but I can vouch for the healing power of simply being with others who have shared experiences, who recognize and accept the reasons for our pain. Who have their own.  And of course, sooner or later, we all will.

But really – this morning, it was only the sun.

Aftermath of a War

Last night I watched a movie I picked up from the library, and I can’t stop thinking about it.  ‘Grbavica: The Land of My Dreams’ is directed by Jasmila Zbanic and features two remarkable actresses not recognizable to most Americans – including me.  On August 30, I posted a blog (Remembering War) wondering about the lives of women after the war in Bosnia and this movie was almost like a poignant response to my musing. Set in Grbavica, a Sarajevo neighborhood held by the Serbs during the war – essentially creating a front line smack dab in the middle of what was once considered the most diverse and cosmopolitan of cities in Bosnia.

The movie takes place post-war. Esma is an impressive single mother of Sara, a lively 12 year old girl. Both actresses make these characters riveting. Sara has been raised with, what becomes clear, is the dubious tale that her father died a Bosnian war hero. As children always do, Sara knows she is not being told the truth and pushes her mother for answers. Finally, in a potent climax, Esma tells Sara how she was conceived as a result of countless rapes in a prisoner of war camp. The ugly violence of her beginning only makes the portrait of this mother-daughter relationship more incredible — not cloying, but like the gut punch only love can deliver.

My daughter became increasingly drawn into the story and finally, abandoned her computer-chat to watch with me. At the end of the movie, she said she was a little confused, perhaps because she came in to the story late, but I also imagine she could not fathom such places existed or of the hideousness of rape being used as a weapon of war. In a snapshot, to try to keep her usual short-lived interest in my war- stories, I told her a little bit more and pointed out the flash of yellow building in one of the last scenes in the movie, as the Holiday Inn where her Dad courted me so many years ago. Finally, we believe they will move beyond the ugliness of this terrible secret because their mother-daughter love trumps all.  I love that and know it to be true.

A Year Later

Mostly Morning Musings remains an apt name for this blog, now just over a year old. It’s mostly in the morning when I ponder and write. These almost-weekly entries began when someone in publishing suggested that it is important to have an internet presence is. Letters from agents are still piling up in my cyber-reject file and my memoir has yet to find a home, but meanwhile, I am hooked on blogging.

For a fledgling writer like me, blogs are a great exercise in mustering the moxie to keep putting stuff out there. Finding this courage has been crucial to my writing and life. Writing my memoir (written first time around as a novel because it felt safer that way) helped me to process the crazy years of life with an addict and the shock of my husband’s suicide. Compulsively writing every morning before the sun rose, my story became a story instead of a dark shadow within me. The process was healing and cathartic but also my introduction to writing about what I love: nature, books, food, the seasons – this beautiful life.

Writing – thinking about writing, and actually doing it – helps me to step out of what can easily become a mundane march of day-to-day things to be done. In pausing, I really see the world around and within me and sometimes, even discover an insight to carry with me through the day. This is what I look for when I read and hopefully, you, my dear readers, find such pleasure here. I feel humbled and encouraged and thank you.

Snowed-In

December was a grueling month.  Six-day weeks and long hours at the bookstore – ringing at the cash register, looking for obscure or in-demand titles. Mark Twain was this year’s sleeper success and difficult to get hold of, Cleopatra and Keith Richards were more predictably popular and easy to find. (Imagining the three of them – together for a fascinating and funny chat, delighted me.) Customers sure the book they absolutely must have because it is the perfect gift, follow me about the store, desperately. Cynically, I can already see this same book, sometimes with wrapping paper still attached, coming back to us. ‘Reason for return: Unwanted’, the cash register will ring again and again through the next few weeks.

But the holidays are almost done (only New Years – less an event for books) and today, I do not have to do anything. There is a daunting pile of laundry and in the refrigerator, only enough left-overs for another day or so – but no presents to buy, no major meals to prepare for. I feel free! After writing this, I may even get back under the flannel sheets to read or sleep some more. Oh, joy!  This feeling began yesterday afternoon as soon as I returned home from work (the dread day of returns) and pulled into the slippery driveway. I drove home so slowly through the treacherous, slushy streets, cheering on my little Subaru each time we made it up or down another hill without spinning out. Settling into the couch in front of the fireplace as Rob vigilantly stoked the flames all evening, I read three days worth of newspapers and a bit of my book between dozing and listening to the howling winds, grateful for our good walls and Rob’s amazing winterizing techniques.

Today, I get to stay home. As if to underline the point, the snow is still swirling, the roads from my window look totally white: I am snowed-in.  Oh, bliss! Not even the dog is asking for a walk yet.

Winter Solstice and Lunar Eclipse

At 2:00 am, I woke to my alarm, pulled myself to my elbows and peered out the window to look at the eclipse edging over the smudgy looking moon in the hazy sky. The earth’s shadow slowly crept across the silver glow and here on earth, a fierce wind howled. Branches of the maple tree swayed and bent back-and-forth – an ecstatic wave of fractals. Glad to be between the warmth of my blankets, I burrowed deeper, forcing myself to lift my head off the pillow a few more times to check on the dramatic welcome to winter before succumbing to sleep and dreaming of a lunar eclipse. This morning, I cannot distinguish dream from memory.

Dark Days of December

In my neighborhood, Christmas lights and decorations appear within days of Thanksgiving. Next door, the light-bulb deer remain lit on the lawn all day. The house on the corner of our street looks like a Hallmark advertisement, wrapped in ribbon, evergreen swag and wreaths on every lit window. Next door to that house is my other favorite: the little red cape with the 1960s vintage decor – huge colored balls. The rest of us hang glittering lights purchased off the drugstore shelves – different garish rainbows of blinking colors. These flashes of brightness help to get us through the peak of winter solstice – the darkest days of December, refusing to succumb to the dark. I think we should leave them up through February.

While I always dread snow (the clean up and difficult driving) as I write there is a magical dusting going on – a meditative dance performance of flakes.  Earlier, walking Tetley in the dark morning, the flakes seemed illuminated – nature’s beacons of light. Perhaps I can learn to embrace this aspect of winter – to twist a little yoga saying – and honor the light of winter.

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