BiCoastal Beach Walks and a New Year

While not a fan of the rushing and crazy expectations of the holiday season, I have long embraced January 1st as a kind of goal post for new beginnings. Reflection and letting go, dreaming and aspirational planning – I like all that. If nothing else it is an exercise of hope even as the world feels like it’s falling apart. We get to imagine and try to commit to a future that is better than ever.

Birds of Paradise!

Last year was a happy one for me – largely because my kid is happy and because we are both healthy. And I’ve gotten better at living in the present. I’ll try and keep that going in 2024. Of course, there’s some planning involved in life especially when it comes to trips and I took two last year. After hunkering down during COVID, it was nice to get out again. The adventure of Greece and Italy this summer was incredible and I just got back from California where I spent the Christmas with Molly.

At the Getty Museum

It was a perfect shake-up of how we usually celebrate and a nice lead up to what I’m imagining for 2024. While I enjoy the wood stove and cozy home traditions of our holidays in Connecticut, not getting a tree nor going overboard on presents was liberating. My time in LA was spent marveling at exotic flowers in bloom, smelling all the roses on long walks with only a sweatshirt for warmth. Hummingbirds seem to be everywhere and palm fronds rather than brown leaves litter the sidewalks. Writing this back in grey Connecticut, the memory of the weather and landscape and time with Molly is like a dream.

Rufus isn’t crazy about the waves.

Less than a week ago, I tramped across the very long stretch of beach to the waves of the Pacific Ocean pulled off my shoes and wet my feet in the waves. That vast ocean is daunting and mysterious, exciting and terrifying. Thinking about Japan on the other side of all that water gave me comfort and a pang of longing to see friends and corners there that I adore. Maybe that will be in the cards again soon.

Brant Geese wintering in Connecticut

Since returning home to Connecticut, I’m back to walking on the short rocky beaches of the Long Island Sound – a tame Atlantic tidal estuary. Better for bird watching. A huge flock of Brant geese have been hanging about and today there were a few Long-tailed ducks splashing too far for my phone camera to capture.

So what is next? This is the year I get healthcare without working so my plan is to step off the hamster wheel. I’ll figure out the nuts and bolts of surviving and thriving as an oldster. This almost 2 week break I’ve just had over the holidays has been a great taste of what it is to have time. I am ready. For 27 years I have been a good soldier for the same company. Bless them. It’s been good, providing support and stability while I raised my beautiful girl. But I want to find out who I am again without a job claiming my time. More on that as I get nearer to the cliff edge.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep my toes in the water and an eye out for birds. What are you dreaming about? A happy and healthy New Year to you!

Clearing Out

Maintaining and fixing old things is sometimes daunting. Cars, appliances, hearts not to mention minds. Today I’m referring to my house built in 1938. The Queen of Denial, I am expert at ignoring problems. I’ve lived for years with knobs that came off when you tried to open the door (the front door to boot – and we lived with it that way for years!) a leaking shower head, a broken porch step. You get the idea. I call these quirks so they seem charming.

I try and tackle most things on my own. Recently that meant cleaning my gutters including digging up, clearing out and putting back together two buried downspouts. But most plumbing and all electricity issues, are beyond me. When these things become big problems, I reluctantly call a professional.

Does doing that scare you? It terrifies me, imagining the cost – thus my avoidance. For years, my basement has periodically flooded usually after doing laundry. For a long time this was temporarily solved by getting my waste-water pipe snaked every year or so. I have a nice guy who charged me a reasonable amount to clear out the roots that regularly moved into my old cast iron pipes. I figured this was just something to live with because of all my beautiful trees. Occasionally I’d buy that expensive root killing powder and flush it down the toilet but now I have a commode (replaced by my daughter with me assisting) that doesn’t use as much water and I didn’t like the idea of all those matter-eating chemicals lingering in my house pipes.

About a month ago I had to call back my snake-guy after he’d been here only months before. He suggested that the time had come to figure out what the big issue was. Fixing it was beyond the capability of his machine.

And thus began my night terrors and house-anxiety. How big, how expensive would this problem be? Was there a broken pipe somewhere under my lawn or worse, would it require digging up the city road, surely costing me the value of my house to fix? I started waking at 3 in the morning to torture myself, imagining scenarios about all sorts of catastrophes. What was I thinking to imagine I can stay in this old house on my own? Etc, etc. What-ifs ran through my head until the sky turned pink with sunrise.

The problem has been fixed, could have been much worse and was solved for a very fair price and worth every penny. I do have a little PTSD so when I do a load of laundry or take a long shower I go down to the basement to check all is dry. It will take time to realize that in fact, the pipes are clear and waste moves out and far away through the city sewers.

The worst part was, as it almost always is, the not-knowing. I can concoct some terrible demons. And I did. I stressed for weeks. So I now embrace the metaphor and visualize my clean pipes taking away ALL the physical and psychic accumulation – the WASTE I’m guilty of hanging onto for too long. That includes worry and fear about so much old stuff. It’ll be okay and so will I, vintage and all!

Fallen Branch Not Sky

Broken Branch

Rot and recent rains downed this large branch from a gigantic oak tree in my yard. It fell just to the side of the driveway, most of it landing on the patchy lawn, the leafy, smaller branches barely missing the blueberry bushes. The catbird who eats all of the berries before I can get a single one, has already perched on a fallen twig, enjoying the new perspective. The branch is big – the size of a slender tree – not something I can kick off to the side to ignore until it turns to earth. Hot and humid as yesterday was, I was determined to tackle clean up.

Mighty Oak

My mighty oak looks fine. Hopefully there aren’t too many more damaged branches. The house is a safe enough distance and while my driveway could get blocked and there’s a chance the car could be hit by future falling limbs, I’m not very worried. Oaks are good old trees with deep roots – as my undulating driveway illustrates. Unlike some of my neighbors, I embrace the beautiful shade and oxygen producing trees and do not see them as a threat. Knock wood. haha. Still, I’ve been peering up at my trees more than usual.

Chain Saw

Oak is a hard wood and this branch will be good burning in another six months but getting it cut into logs is a challenge for my little electric chain saw. I don’t often feel overwhelmed by these tasks that in the old days the man in my life would take care of, but yesterday, I did. I don’t know how and really don’t want to attempt to sharpen the chain on my chainsaw but I am pretty sure it’s because it’s dull that it got stuck twice while I was cutting. Thanks youtube – I managed to get the well cursed out chain dislodged although the second time (use one ax as a wedge while knocking it with the back of another ax – yes, I have two rusty old axes.) brought me close to tears. And for a flash, I thought, this is all too much for me to take care of.

Don’t worry, that passed. At least for now. My house is old and I love it even if that means it needs lots of work as does my yard full of trees and shrubs. I love the sweet habitat all these leaves and branches lend to a myriad of wildlife and birds providing enough pleasure for me that I don’t begrudge them my blueberries and strawberries. I look up at the trees regularly watching birds and the squirrels do crazy gymnastics or just marveling at the fractals and leaves while I listen to the breezes and rain. Still, sometimes, after a big branch falls, I have a moment of catastrophic thinking.

In all aspects of my life I’ve been trying to resist a knee-jerk reaction of worst case scenario. Whether I am looking upward or inward, I want to go to the marvel part of my brain not the lurking disaster. I’m hoping this thinking is like a muscle and I can build it up and strengthen it, to edge out the shit-thinking. I lived through some crazy times in my life so it’s no wonder that I go to that place where my heart races and hands shake. I still need to remind myself that insane days are gone and I need to resist the stress and gloom and embrace small challenges like this. I want to be like the catbird and enjoy the different perspective that a fallen branch can bring.

And I bought a new chain for my chainsaw.

The Hedge

An old photo

Photographs remind me that the privet hedge surrounding the house was once no more than waist high. Now, the long stretch of it is taller than my late husband’s 6 foot 4 height. Despite my diligence in trimming, the size of this bush has become unmanageable. Entire sections grew beyond my reach even with the extension pole on the clipper. Last summer, after a few sweaty attempts at taming, I surrendered and let it grow rogue – some shoots growing to 10 feet.

Pruning in Progress

Years ago, a friend advised me to cut it back before it buds but I never shook winter’s torpor in time until this year when February felt more like March. Not wanting to look any more like the crazy house on the corner, I began tackling the massive job of pruning 2-3 feet off the top. It’s been more than 2 weeks and I’m still at it.

I bought a new handheld chain saw that I thought would have me zipping through this job but, chain saws are not great for shrubbery. It helps with the thick branches but the speeding blades turn the sprigs into whips dangerously slapping around my face and snagging in the chain. It chews at the unsteady branches like an attacking dog, resulting in ragged, splintered cuts. No, this job requires laborious, slow, hand-cutting, branch-by-branch. With lobber in hand and small clipper in my pocket, I start at the top of the driveway moving to the middle, then out to the street side – all the while, looking at the whole, as if I were working on a sculpture.

Turns out, I mostly enjoy this slow process. The job is meditative and memories flow. I remember how I learned to do this work from George – a tiny man who I’ve long described as old but now being there myself, I wonder what his age was. Probably younger than I am now. I was 18 and working with the university’s landscape crew the summer after my sophomore year at UCONN. He showed me how to prune vines and yew and privet. “You have to feel it in here,” he said, touching his heart. I was an art student frustrated with my teachers but George spoke to me, inspiring me more than any of those professors.

So, with my heart and increasingly achey arms, I snip, lob, snip, leaning out into the scratchy branches to reach a sucker a foot higher than the rest. It’s tough to cut and I’m at a bad angle and my foot slips on the the dry leaves beneath, but I shift my grip and squeeze and the blade breaks through and clicks as if in satisfaction. It’s hard to believe that once our neighbors could easily hand us a cup of sugar over this now gigantic bush. I need to bring it down low enough so I don’t have to get up on a ladder to prune.

The Hedge in Snow

This part of the hedge is where our Cairn Terrier, Tetley, used to dash through into the street to bark and otherwise greet passing dogs. A little to the left there is still enough of a hole to slip through as a short-cut to go to our neighbor’s house – something Molly did for years. Thanks to a volunteer oak tree that insists on growing back each year to lay claim to this space, the hole remains.

The Fallen Tree

Every inch of this property and house is dense with memories, and this hedge is a tangle of them. As I pull out a thick growth, years of images come with it. Here’s where the bird’s nest was one year – lots of screaming and horror as a momma came squawking out at me and I worried I’d killed her babies but no bodies were found. Here’s where the dead elm tree fell in an early autumn snow storm, blocking the road and knocking the privet branches down, leaving a gap like a missing tooth. Once the tree was taken away, Molly and I pushed the roots back, straightening the section as much as we could and by late summer, the space had filled with new growth. It’s easy to spot the damage in winter but luckily, even at a 45 degree angle, the branches bloom in Spring covering the evidence.

Molly has memories of her own around the hedge. When I told her about my new chainsaw she remembered the summer her dad cut himself with the hedge-clipper, resulting in lots of blood. Joking about childhood trauma, she urged me to be very careful. Yes, the hedge has experienced all sorts of drama. My roughest memory is pushing aside branches in a section we never crawled through before, guiding my 8 year old ahead of me through the thick snarl of wood to the street. This was on the morning of Neil’s death, and I knew I could not let Molly see what I saw.

Our privet gives us privacy and has hidden sadness and even terrible things but within its green boundary, there have been more scenes of joy and laughter. Watching my daughter play and grow and run and swing across our lawn, joined by two of the sweetest dogs, first Tetley then Rufus – both blissfully chasing an abundance of squirrels. This woody shrubbery surrounds a place of love and good memories, including most of the years with Neil and then Rob. Despite the heartbreak of their stories, I also recall the love and sweetness and that they both made me laugh more than cry.

Published as a surprise in Molly’s high school yearbook. The community that help raise her.

I thought I could just zoom through this make-over with a fancy tool but it’s a gift to take the time to trim, pare down, decide what branches to take out, where to cut so new growth will sprout easily. This scramble of fractals encompasses my life. I am not only preserving a boundary but creating space so I can accept the sugar offered my way.

Ohm and Other Options

During these winter days, sky heavy with clouds, I have to remind myself that I like four seasons and appreciate this time of hibernation. I welcome the nudge to go inward and further into darkness although sometimes it feels a fine line between rich reflecting and just holing up. I’ve been trying to find some balance and peace in all the gloom rather than just wait for a sunny day.

Beach grass in winter turns inward too!

In that spirit, I’m attempting to revive whatever scraps of past meditation practices I can remember. There were times in my life when I began and sometimes ended the day in meditation but like many a good habit, this one fell by the wayside. I’d like to start again. Too often my mind takes off like a racehorse. Or more like a tornado – twisting and turning, whipping up dread, catastrophe, chaos with a little nonsense mixed in.

The benefits of sitting, focused, breathing are clear. Conscious breathing alone calms and quiets. Sometimes I catch myself in a day, not breathing deeply or even at all. Try it. Check yourself right now – are you breathing well? Filling your abdomen, chest, lungs and then releasing completely? I was not, I realized after I wrote those words and checked my own breathing. I tend to take shallow breaths, sometimes holding my breath in a weird pause.

These Brant geese spend their winters here.

Breath is so expressive. Deep breath. Sigh. Gasp. Breath is life – the beginning and end. I remember when premie-baby Molly came home after 3 first weeks of the hospital looking after her. Now she was mine to care for. Holding my own breath, I watched for hers.

Thinking about my breath leads me back to something bigger than the chatter in my head about what to make for dinner, bills to pay, people to call, work issues, or something that happened 40 years ago. Random thoughts spinning through my mind endlessly. Breath and mind are amazingly linked and breath is a good boss to keep things in line.

Thoughts of Rufus in this ridiculous sweatsuit definitely distracts me. Although laughing is good!

With so many schools, techniques, philosophies around meditation, it’s hard to know what’s the way for me and if I’m doing it ‘right’. And of course, what IS right? I watched a promo pitch for Transcendental Meditation online. I had to sign up for the promo session and when I did, promptly began receiving texts and phone calls from Fairfield, Iowa. And that made me think of Tony from 40 years ago who hitched rides on freight trains from Fairfield, Iowa where he went to Maharashi University (home of Transcendental Meditation) to Cincinnati where he would show up at crazy hours and toss pebbles at my window. I lived in a converted school building in the middle of a derelict neighborhood. There was a closet in the hallway converted into a shower. Thinking back, the common spaces were pretty creepy as was the neighborhood of burned out buildings. But our studios were amazing. Hardwood floors, blackboards and light pouring in all day through old wavy panes of glass. Tony never talked about TM or Maharashi but he played guitar and sang really sweetly and while I’m not usually a sucker for that kind of thing, he was good and did I say he was cute? I wonder if he’s still alive (we’re all getting old and he used to jump on and off freight trains after all) and if he still meditates? Interesting and creative people do TM like the director David Lynch, Jerry Seinfeld, Mick Jagger. Still, I’m not sure I want to pay over $700 to learn the secrets.

See how my mind goes off on a spin any chance it can get? Sitting quietly for more than 10 minutes takes practice and I am out of practice. I try setting a timer and still end up cracking open one eye to see if time is up, kind of hoping that it is. Why? So I can get up and go about my day working for the dollar? Maybe I’m hungry. Or I feel like I have to get started on something else. What’s so important that it can’t wait 5 more minutes? 10, 20 even? Nothing. I know that if I can train myself to do this regularly, I’ll feel more peaceful, calm, less crazed. It’s worked before. Maybe I should cough up $700. That’s a lot for me. I tried some online guided sessions but found most of the voices annoying. I prefer the quiet although I signed up for something called a sound-bath session in a neighboring town. Sound is important. I do like saying ‘ohm!’ either alone or in a group. There’s a nice vibration that’s settling and centering. We’ll see.

Do you meditate? What works for you? xxx

Raptors and Me

Birds of prey have been appearing and soaring and flapping around me so much this past week that I have to think they’re trying to make a point. I searched ‘significance of birds of prey’ on the internet (this site was the most interesting I found) and what’s been happening recently definitely feels meaningful. Tell me these encounters in my city of over 90,000 people aren’t wild!

Red Tailed Hawk near the river.

Yesterday, within an hours time from when I took Rufus on an early afternoon walk, I had 4 raptor sightings. I watched one hawk hovering in the same spot high up in the sky. A few blocks later I spotted another one sitting in a tree near the river. I filmed the video above catching this red tail hawk fly from one branch to another. About 10 minutes later, as I neared the house, I saw another huge hawk – more than 18 inches long sitting in the big sycamore tree across from our house. Shortly afterwards, Molly and I sat talking in the living room over coffee when her gaze shifted outside. Balanced atop our hedge was what we think is a sparrow hawk. We watched it eyeing the bird feeder and Molly spotted two squirrels flattened against the trunk of the maple tree looking very nervous. It hung around for minutes, moving on to a branch not far from the squirrels before moving on.

Sparrow Hawk (?) in the front yard.

Yesterday was incredible but not quite as amazing as my two experiences with another recent visitor(s?) earlier in the week.

It was still dark when I heard Rufus’s muffled bark summon me for a dawn walk. I got out of bed reluctantly and bundled up in a sweater over my pjs, a scarf looped around my neck, a wooly hat and a puffy coat. In the breezeway I shuffled out of my slippers into ugly old clogs I only wear for short dog walks. I opened the door and Rufus pulled, hoping to catch sight of a squirrel or the resident rabbit so he could bark and wake all the neighbors.

No barking this morning. We meandered down to the end of the driveway, me carefully stepping between rotting crabapples. The sky bloomed pink in the east and the blurry softness of grays and blacks of the small wooded area came into focus. I was mid-yawn as a large bird flapped by so close I could hear a whoosh of wings. It landed on a low branch not ten feet away from where it sat and stared at me.

Holding my breath, I stared back. An owl! Rufus was quiet. I whispered – hello you gorgeous creature, almost feeling an impulse to bow to its magnificence! My heart beating double pace with the thrill, I tried not to blink lest I miss a moment, my vision and mind still fuzzy in the dawn light. After what felt like minutes but still too short, the owl lifted off and flew a few yards to the mulberry tree, attention back to its hunt, head turned towards a scrubby corner of my yard. But for those few minutes it had stared directly at me. I felt like it wanted to tell me something. I watched until it lifted off and out of sight, marveling how such a large body can be moved through the air on wings.

The next day at dusk, still early by the clock, maybe 5 PM but in December that’s almost dark, Rufus pulled on the blanket I cuddled under with my book, an insistent request for a walk. So we repeated the ritual – this time dressed slightly more acceptably to be seen in public. We made it to the middle of the driveway when I looked to the left and froze. An owl was watching me. Again, I gazed back as if we were picking up on an unknown conversation. The same owl? I don’t know! Molly was working up in her room and I looked down long enough to text her to come out quickly. She quietly crept out of the house and joined me. The owl stared at us both and we whispered our wonder back and forth. She captured the photo above.

Meeting wildlife in my city neighborhood can feel like gentle prods into a spiritual place but these recent ones are like more substantial kicks! What am I missing? What should I know? Pay attention to? Face-to-face with owls twice in two days? And all those other raptors practically following me around? Magical and uncanny. I’ve had other creature encounters – like my morning meet-ups with a fox a few years ago that I wrote about here. And this is Molly’s second owl visit this year – her previous one in LA that I wrote about here. Maybe Neil is checking in on us again? I can’t yet report on any insight from these extraordinary visits other than an incredible joy and awe. What do you think? I’ll claim them as harbingers of a rich and wise new year. And I wish the same to you!

Dog and Other Walks

My daughter brought Rufus home for Thanksgiving and when she flies back to California later today, he will remain with me. Molly will return for Christmas and will bring him back to his west coast life in January. Meanwhile I have the pleasure and responsibility of taking care of this sweet dog.

Rufus smiling

While I haven’t missed his 6 AM demand that I take him out, I don’t hate being forced to see the sunrise. While he angles his leg towards the hedge to pee, I yawn and look up at the sky. This morning the sky was glorious – a deep navy blue in the west as night moved out and a glowing yellow of a new day in the east.

Getting outside also gets me out of my head when I am more inclined to retreat to full hibernation mode. Especially in winter, I get lazy and I don’t love the cold and there have already been days when I barely step out of the house. That’s not good. Even a short walk around the neighborhood gives me a spark of energy along with a fix of fresh oxygen. Having Rufus around with his multiple required outings each day, reminds me that I need to fan these sparks into flames.

Rather than letting the days simply pass, I want to savor each as precious. Even the physical movement of opening the door changes the energy, creates an atmospheric shift reminding me that I am part of something bigger than myself. Walking through the neighborhood, exchanging a few words with a neighbor or venturing down to the river to note the tide and maybe glimpse the great blue heron who seems to be wintering nearby, all give me a sense of well-being.

Stepping outdoors with no other intent than to follow this pup around in his wander, no matter how self absorbed I was minutes earlier, the wind against my cheek, light in my eyes, crunch of leaves under my feet, keeps me present.

Rufus surveying the estate

It’s not that I don’t go for walks when Rufus isn’t here. I’m pretty disciplined about getting up and out and there are advantages to doing this solo. While I like the purpose a dog brings, walks alone are easier. Without him, I walk at my own pace instead of being pulled along, stopping abruptly so he can sniff every few feet. Alone, I can drive the 10 minutes to the beach and walk where dogs aren’t allowed but the views are spectacular. I do like the freedom of not having a pet – but I miss the rituals, the weight of him on my lap, his sweet devotion.

No, I do not want to adopt another dog right now. But I do love having him visit and I do love him. But right now I am learning who this new me is that need only take care of myself and it’s very interesting and a little luxurious. Today it is rainy and Rufus, not a fan of getting wet, won’t want to venture further than the yard to do the necessary. I may just have to leave him at home and go for a walk by myself. (Or not!)

Pets or no pets?

Changing Direction

My friend texted me as I waited at the light to turn left towards the highway – the quickest route to the community garden. She’d just watered my plot. We do that for each other sometimes. Now what? The light changed and I turned right. I’d take care of different errands instead. But what? I had enough to eat at home, plenty of toothpaste, whatever. There was nothing I really needed and nothing, now that the garden was taken care of, that needed me. A simple text exchange launched me into an existential crisis.

This summer most of my weekends have been busy and more social than the norm for me, with lots of meeting friends and an otherwise full to-do list. This Saturday morning the only pressing thing was watering the garden and now that was done. There’s been a crazy drought this summer and I hadn’t been up there since early in the week. I could have gone there anyway to pick a tomato or two, pull a weed, maybe catch my pal while she was still there. And I actually have two plots and only one is right by my friend’s – the other one is in the lower garden area. I could have and maybe I should have, gone and watered that one. But I didn’t – I abandoned my plan and turned in the opposite direction. And promptly felt lost.

The ‘lower’ garden

I continued driving right past the farmer’s market where I had been thinking of going although I didn’t really need to because I have enough food. What was the point? What was the point — of anything and of any of us? Of life? What are we all doing here on this planet? For at least a minute, I felt this question profoundly in my body. Here I am busily moving about the world taking care of tasks, my job, different roles to different people. What for? Then I remembered that my gas tank was very low. Phew! A distraction that made sense – a need. I turned right at the next intersection and drove to the cheapest but best gas I could get. It was almost $50 to fill my tank and yes that’s painful but I used to live in countries where fuel has been pricey for a long time so I’ve been trying to get over it and drive less. Shame on us for not being more adaptable and innovative and making the changes necessary for our poor thirsty or drowning earth. (depending where you live)

Back to my crisis. Saturday-morning-temporary-insanity aside, I really am at a crossroads in my life. For years my purpose felt clear – based on being needed. Now I live alone, my daughter and Rufus are happily living life on the West coast and while we talk daily, she doesn’t need me. I know my dearest and beloved daughter – I hear you in my head scolding – ‘yes I do need you’! But you don’t and that makes me happy. You are creating your own life, taking care of yourself and our sweet pup and I’m proud and know that is how it should be.

A morning harvest

I now have a new freedom and can start figuring out what this new, old-me wants to do with the rest of my life. I confess to feeling slightly unmoored anticipating the next thing but I don’t hate it. Life now is fascinating and exciting and terrifying, all at once. I feel on the brink of changes. But of what? How? Where? Why? These are the questions I have ideas about but no answers. For now, I continue to plod on with the daily routine of the dutiful worker, doing some iteration of what sustained my little family and this little house for the last 25 years. Am I passionate about it? Never. It’s a job. I love books. I don’t love sales but I am conscientious and interested in other people so that’s translated easily enough. And I am loathe to give up the regular paycheck not to mention health insurance. But it’s never been who I am and now that it’s only me that needs supporting, I have been trying to figure out how much do I need? When can I stop? Not knowing how long I have on this planet makes calculations challenging. But if I knew, I’d claim my time back and have every day be like a Saturday when no one but me owns my hours.

On this past Saturday, I think I had a taste of what’s to come – when I have figured enough out and am brave enough to take the leap. I will have those existential questions for longer than a drive in the car: who am I? That’s kind of the point, though, right? I want to think about that question. I have always likened anticipated life changes to changing the gears on a bicycle. You have to work up to the right gear and there’s a certain amount of grinding until you get to the place where it’s comfortable to pedal. (at least on my old bike!) That’s where I am. I don’t know what’s at the top nor the bottom of the hill so I’m staying alert and ready for anything.

Any advice from my retired readers?

Languishing To-Do Lists

Weekends are never long enough. (Is that a chorus of ‘amens’ I hear out there?) Not just for fun and relaxation but for getting life things done. If you’re a homeowner with yard maintenance to add to the to-do list, the issue of not enough time is even larger. Especially in summer. My monster hedge grows like crazy and currently, there is a corner of my property choked with weeds including thistle plants as tall as my pear trees. Plus there’s the lawn in addition to the needs inside my shabby house. Some tasks have languished on my ‘list’ for years.

This summer’s drought has at least meant a reprieve from mowing my lawn much. I haven’t yanked on that starter cord in about a month. Yesterday I did tackle the hedge for about an hour but finished only a quarter of it. And inside, also for the first time in a month, I vacuumed up some robust clusters of dust bunnies. No drought to blame for that neglect. I even cleared a few things out of the garage. AND managed to go kayaking and swimming. Today is Sunday and I’m taking rare guidance from the bible and mostly resting and writing this. The hedge will wait.

Before – from the archives. It’s taller now.

To be clear, I don’t have the neat-and-clean standards of many of my friends and neighbors who have immaculate lawns, clear kitchen counters, neatly filed (plus likely paid) bills and nary a dust-bunny in sight. That’s never been my style or my forte. Of course, in my corner of Connecticut many have housecleaners and lawn people or no longer (if they ever did) have jobs. That’s not my life this go-round; I have neither time nor enough money to spend on keeping things looking that good. I like to think that when the day comes and I can reclaim my time every day of the year (retirement — where are you?) then my house will be more orderly, my bookshelves, cupboards, basement and garage purged and neat, flaking ceilings repaired and painted. There’s so much to do around here, always. And it’s just me to do it. So if you come for a visit, please don’t judge me.

After – from the archives. I haven’t gotten this far yet!

Particularly if someone hasn’t been to my house before, I judge myself in anticipation of their judgement. I’ll usually do some kind of tidy-up, wash the kitchen floor and definitely clean the bathroom. I imagine my visitors seeing the wasted potential here in this darling cape on a generous corner plot. How great the hardwood floors would be if only they were refinished, how a fresh coat of paint in the kitchen would really brighten things up. The windows need refurbishing or maybe replacing (I’m attached to my old wooden sash windows, some need propping up and all are drafty as hell) and it would be so easy to put a second bathroom in. I imagine my visitors thinking about what flower beds they’d plant, what trees they’d trim or maybe even cut down. (gulp! not the trees!) I know this is nutty thinking and not fair to my dear friends who love me and my home.

All of those improvements would be great and I’d like to do them – except for cutting down the trees. But I will leave most of this to the next owner. Even if that’s Molly, when she hits the big time. (She adores this house and I can feel her heart sink every time I mention leaving.) But other than taking care of the basics, it’s unlikely to be me. Has anyone filled their oil tank lately??? Or ordered firewood for that matter? (can you say ‘gouging’?) $$$

Did I mention that even after living here for more than 20 years I still have a mortgage now pretty close to what it was originally? Yes, I have lived here for a long time so that’s a little crazy. But I still have a house and if you have followed this blog or know some of my story, you will understand why I am proud of that. So come visit, sit on my porch where the breeze is lovely. I’ll make you a drink or a cup of tea – just don’t judge or I’ll put you to work! 🙂

Memories of a Rough Start

My first glimpse of Molly – this photo brought to me by Neil the morning after I gave birth to Molly.

The entire month of June slipped by without me writing a word here and being my favorite month, it deserved at least a nod. June is also when my favorite season begins but much more significantly, June is when my daughter was born. This year, perhaps because she is across the country and we did not get to celebrate together, I was recalling our rocky start. Because she was born almost 2 months before her due date of August 1, Molly did not get to leave the hospital until July 5. Not until then did I feel like she was mine. The hospital was in charge and I felt like a devoted visitor.

Finally home. July 3.

During the weeks after her birth, I went to the hospital as if to work – although with infinitely more love and excitement than any job I’ve ever gone to. Neil worked at the United Nations base in Brindisi which is also where the only hospital in the area with a neonatology department was located. He would drop me off at the hospital gate by 8 AM and I’d take the elevator up to the ward, my heart pounding. You know, when you first fall in love and feel the thrill of getting closer and closer to your adored one? That was the feeling. After hurriedly scrubbing up and putting on a green gown, I’d go in to the room where her open incubator was, lean over and aiming between tubes, kiss her impossibly soft skin. My day of vigil sitting would begin.

First meeting.

Molly’s eyes were covered to protect them from bright lights shining on her to get rid of jaundice. It was days before I got to hold her and see her gorgeous blues. One of the nurses placed her carefully in my arms, tubes still attached. She was lighter than our smallest cat. When the nurse lifted the gauze off her eyes and blinked at me like a little bird, I wept.

Proud and loving dad.
Proud, loving Dad.

I always get a pang watching on-screen birth scenes (Call the Midwife anyone?) when the baby is handed over to the mom for a first cuddle, all swaddled and wet. No such luck for me. Molly was swept off in an ambulance to Brindisi, 40 minutes away from the teeny hospital in Ostuni where they kept me for 3 days. Neil followed the ambulance to the hospital and because of visiting hour restrictions, did not return until the following day. Pre-cell phones, I didn’t know a thing until the next morning when Neil came in with the polaroid photo of her all tubed up. I thought she was beautiful even then.

Betty and Molly.

I’ve never been one to get too excited about babies – or even kids. But I really wanted this child and I fell hard for her during those weeks in the hospital. Being a parent of a premie is initially different, from what I can tell. That is, until they catch up to where they should be. And then you mostly forget that they ever were behind and forget that you once were worried sick about them 24-7. Until then, the fragility of their life is non-stop right in front of your nose and terror always lurks around the corner. Those weeks, sweltering in the south of Italy, in antiseptic rooms darkened to keep the heat out, I existed in a kind of other-zone. Progress was measured by weight. We were lucky with Molly’s little lungs and our brilliant neonatologist who was a believer in low-intervention and never intubated her. She was a champ but we kept a nebulizer around for a few months anyway. It’s all about the breath, life.

The life-saving team at Brindisi Hospital. The Doctor hero is holding her. The best.

It’s also all about feeding and as a UNICEF project officer, I knew the benefits of breast milk and was determined. And bless those Italian nurses who did everything to support us moms. It took about a week before Molly was released from the tubes and I was encouraged to try and breast feed. The routine was, all of us mothers would take over the nurses’ rickety chairs and wait for the nurses to weigh our infants. Then we’d get our breasts out and give it our best try for about 10 minutes. But premie babies usually aren’t very good suckers as the follow-up weighing revealed. While in the hospital it was rare that I ever received any report besides ‘niente‘. The scale revealing no intake. That’s when the bottles of breastmilk we’d pumped for back-up were brought out. Now I understand this weighing business is flawed but at the time, it was disheartening. Still, I persisted and by the time Molly was home, she was breast-only baby and I continued nursing until well past a year and yes, I’m still proud of that.

From the time I was 28 I knew I really wanted to be a mother. Of course deciding you want a family and making it real are two different things so I was in my mid thirties by the time I became a joyous mom to my beloved girl. I was ready, so ready to welcome this girl into my life. At 18, I was not ready. To this day I am grateful that I had a choice. My daughter should have a choice. EVERY woman should.

Planned Parenthood

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