Category: Seasonal Musings

Too Much Sun

Finally – rain! After more than a week of perfect sunny days, today the sky is heavy with the promise of more precipitation. Last night’s showers have left the air sweetly smelling of earth. I planted seeds for an array of garden greens the other day.  The soil was so sandy, I covered each patch lightly with mulch lest the whole lot get blown away. Verging on drought around here, we desperately need this rain.  And I am glad to be forced indoors to take care of neglected tasks.

Today ends a blissful vacation week, mostly spent running my daughter around to look at colleges. I’ve lost track of the days and abandoned my usual schedule. But when I stayed up too late some nights, I just crawled back to bed for an extra hour in the morning if I needed more snooze. I puttered, read, wrote, drove and drove and drove, and wandered around college campuses in all their spring glory. Each day was mine to plan according to needs and desires of me and mine.

I’m melancholy about going back to work – as much as I like my job. And I fantasize about what it would be like not working. That is, not working because I have enough money. (The scenario of losing my job and being unemployed and broke is, of course, not the fantasy.) I fuel this dream by occasionally buying lottery tickets. But perhaps the sweetness would fade, grow dry and dusty like too many sunny days… do you think?

Being Here

It’s Monday and I’ve taken the day off from work. Today is my birthday and my plan is to  do whatever I want. Right now I am sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop and a cappuccino pretending to be someone who really gets to do this. In my fantasy life, I’d be in a sunny little studio at the very pointy top of my house. I’d be able to look out the window and see the Long Island Sound in the distance. Never mind: this is good too. And I get why some writers seek out tables at B&N rather than work at home at their kitchen table, away from the piles of papers needing sorting, floors needing washing or dog begging for a walk.

It’s a gorgeous day – the sun is bright and air brisk so I will take dear Tetley for a walk later – maybe even to the beach. If it warms up enough, I’ll eat a lunch of cheesy leek, roasted cauliflower frittata leftovers out in the back garden near the blooming hyacinth and daffodils. Maybe I’ll garden a little — first pick up some topsoil and mulch to freshen up the veggie garden and plant early crops of peas, lettuce and arugula.

There’s a yoga class at 4:00 I might go to if I can bring myself to leave the sunshine for a darkened room.

I’ll try really hard not to check my work email, reminding myself I am not a heart surgeon and no one will die if I don’t get back to them today.

It’s not quite 9 a.m. and I already feel fawned-over and loved – roses from my daughter, expensive lotion from my guy, texts, emails and messages from friends.

I’m glad to be alive.  All day I am going to pay attention to and celebrate just that.

Time


Daylight Savings feels like a farewell to this remarkably mild winter.  I confess to being a little confused about why we muck about with time this way – something about children waiting for school buses in the dark not being a good thing? It just confuses me and this morning, I feel jet-lagged. But I’ll be happy for the long days. There are other signs of Spring –  in this morning’s walk around the house with Tetley (who barked at the squirrels) I spotted these:

The Swiss Chard that bravely hung on through the winter is already promising tasty dishes. There’s a lot to do around here and I look forward to getting my hands into the dirt, feeling the sun on my back as I yank the abundant weeds. But I also think about time. Probably because it was such an easy one, I enjoyed this winter. Off the hook on outside chores, I relished the hours reading in front of the fire without guilty thoughts of weeds to pull, grass to mow, and oh — all those leaves we never raked up in the autumn. The vegetable garden needs attention and renegade Rose-O-Sharon (an insidious shrub, if you ask me) sprouts are popping up everywhere. And the house is in desperate need of painting. But the stack of books waiting to be read is towering. ‘Savings’ or not, there does not seem to be enough time.

Reason to Get Up in the Morning

Today I pushed the always-set alarm to ‘off’ and went back to sleep — something I never do. I might hit ‘snooze’ for a few extra minutes, but not ‘off’. I didn’t sleep for too much longer – it’s now just 8 AM. But most Sunday mornings, I’ve already dropped Molly at her job, gone grocery shopping and walked Tetley. Left to my druthers, I like to rise early — but there has been something vacation-like about this week with Molly away. And with her off to college in less than 2 years, it’s a taste of what awaits me. And yet…

The longing to take care of someone besides myself, hit me in my late twenties. I had been living in Japan only a month or so.

A cold morning in Kyoto, curled up in the warmth of a futon on the sweet smelling tatami-matted front room in Sarah‘s little house on Marutamachi Street. Sarah was away. There was no place I needed to go. No reason for me to crawl out of bed and get up in this unheated, empty house. For breakfast I would need to dash down the frigid, creaking hall to the tiny kitchen, light the kerosene heater and hover over a cup of tea and wait for my breath to disappear as the room warmed, but why bother? No one was expecting me to show up. Very few people in this country even knew I existed. So I stayed under the covers listening to the sounds of the narrow, busy street. High pitched greetings of women neighbors, grinding gears of trucks, dings of bicycle bells, customers announcing their presence in the tofu shop across the street. Noises of other people’s busy lives. No one waited for me anywhere, nor expected anything of me. I burrowed deeper into my futon with a new ache: a longing to be needed.

As Molly becomes more independent, I moan less about having to drive her places and welcome those moments together. Soon she’ll have her license and she’ll just borrow the car. With another year of high school, she’ll still need some prodding and sometimes, bullying awake in the morning. But not for that much longer. My daily tasks as a mother are changing, disappearing — and I recall the emptiness of a cold Kyoto morning.

Spring Rituals Remembered

February! Somehow, we’ve made it this far through winter and barely had snow or the cruel temperatures Europe and Russia are enduring. Already, there are signs of spring. On a quick walk through my yard yesterday I discovered green crowns of Hyacinth bravely starting to erupt. And in another sunny corner, spears of Daffodils are torpedoing through the dry leaves and dead grass. Strawberry plants look very green on the slope outside my driveway and there are already weeds encroaching on Lupine territory. Bitter cold and snow are likely still ahead, but days are longer and winter’s end is definitely in sight.

Nothing like flowers as harbingers of spring. In Japan, February is the time for Plum Blossom viewing. Crowds flock to parks or temples to really look at the Plum trees in bloom. When I lived in Kyoto, I used to pedal over to Kitano Shrine, lock my bicycle to a lightpost and join the throngs parading through the trees, admiring and of course, taking pictures of and with, the delicate Ume somehow already in bloom. It’s February remember, and still cold. But even bundled up against a bitter wind, clouds of breath lingering in the air, the promise of spring can be inhaled in those blooms and it’s impossible not to feel warmed and hopeful. A few thimble-size swallows of plum wine with friends helps too.

Also in Japan, February 2-4 is Setsubun; the last day of winter by the lunar calendar. Time for spring cleaning — and that includes getting rid of all the bad luck, illness and misfortune in your house, any remnants of the Oni – a kind of cute devil. Many Japanese in Kyoto visit a temple on the east side of town, Yoshida-jinja with calendars, papers, anything that symbolizes what they want gone, and throw it all into a huge bonfire that makes this usually staid place feel primeval. One year I went back early the next day before clean up, to see the broken, charred chotchke remnants still smoldering in the ashes. Isn’t this a fantastic ritual? A communal purging. I planned on taking care of some overdue house cleaning today anyway and am glad I remembered this festival. Now I feel motivated to clean house and tonight, will stoke up the fire-pit outside for a mini-Setsubun in Connecticut. ‘Oni-wa-soto, Fuku-wa-uchi’ (‘Out with devils, In with luck’)

All the News

A rare indulgence I allow myself is weekend home delivery of the New York Times.  Padding out in my slippers to the blue bag waiting at the end of the driveway makes me happy. However, for the second weekend in a row, my joy has been missing.

Tetley looking for the newspaper.

I reported the problem and presumed they’d get it straight this weekend. No such luck. Yesterday, Saturday – when all the good stuff is delivered: Magazine and Book Review, Travel and Arts and Leisure sections – no blue bag. I called again, this time pushing past the automation to a human being. I requested that today, the complete paper be delivered – with all the juicy sections that make the Sunday Times such fun.

Stepping outside on this cold early morning, there was the blue bag at the end of the driveway, but too slim to contain the entire paper – and indeed, it did not. Once again I called the delivery number and voiced my outrage. With rapid-fire imperiousness, I informed the calm voice at the end of the phone line that if all of the Sunday sections were not delivered by later today, I would cancel my subscription.

Now, yesterday’s woman didn’t adequately communicate my annoyance to the local delivery person and I wanted to make sure that today, she did. But still, I began feeling ashamed for being such a bitch. I mean, it’s not the fault of the woman on the other end of the line. I said as much to her and apologized that she had to bear the brunt of my disappointment. She was gracious but I recognized the tightening in her voice as she tried to control her annoyance with me. I have experienced the ire of strangers frustrated with the company I work for and it’s easy to take it personally. Of course that’s what customer service is all about: fielding complaints and solving problems. But still, by the end of the call, I felt a bit like an ass. This is about the newspaper. Not being at my front door. Really. My life is pretty good.

Sick Day

I called out sick today — something I never do. I am sick — but was actually worse on Christmas eve — sneezing and achey. Christmas day was not much better nor the next two days — but knowing how crazy things were at the store I didn’t call out, being the responsible employee that I am.  Shoppers/returners have calmed down and my usual niche of responsibility (schools, corporate customers, authors) is quiet during this week so today, I honored my stuffed head and scratchy throat with an overdue day off. Lovely.

I lingered in bed, getting up only briefly to walk a pleading Tetley before retreating back under the quilts with a cup of tea and a book. Bliss. I so rarely get to see the day’s light in this room — fractal shadows of winter branches flickering across the ceiling.  Relishing the quiet of the house, I wander downstairs to make another cup of tea and leisurely nibble something from the fridge. Except to retrieve the mail, I never stepped out of the house.

I could have dragged myself in today but who would benefit from my miserable, hacking presence? I have to remind myself that I am not saving lives — no one will die because of what I do or do not do in a bookstore. (well, unless it’s the Heimlich maneuver!)

Working

My 16 year old daughter started her first job in the real world yesterday. I dropped her off and watched her walk through the dawn-lit, still empty parking lot to the small family-run cafe. Driving home I recalled my own first job at 16.

Nature’s Kitchen was a storefront Indian restaurant. It was just me and the cook, Singh – a gentle man with a young family back in India. He loved beer and the Average White Band. As soon as the last patron left, he cranked up a tape and we’d clean up to the blaring funky beat.  No table cloths on the 15 or so tables, just yellow paper placemat with scalloped edges, one set at every place. I remember this detail because for years I kept a little love note on a torn-off piece of placemat from an admirer I liked back. He probably scrawled it while slurping his mulligitawny soup. There were crushes, celebrities and crazy people who came in regularly. The glove lady was most memorable. She wore elbow length gloves and came back into the kitchen to boss Singh around. She wouldn’t place her order with me and only allowed him to bring her dishes out – probably because she had crowed at him to wash his hands first. She always finished her meal with the Indian pudding — a scary looking cream-of-wheat concoction  in a battered frying pan, kept warm but also drying out, at the back of the black stove. Thinking back, I’m surprised anything out of that kitchen met glove-lady’s clean neurosis.

Waitressing became my go-to job. It was easy to walk into a restaurant and get hired. Quick and cash, tips that back-in-the-day, did not get reported. I waitressed in restaurants, bars, country clubs and hotels for over ten years. My final job was at a fancy hotel chain as a unionized banquet waitress. I was relieved to no longer have to rattle off salad dressing choices or beers on tap. Sometimes I could go through the whole night only saying one word to the customers as I rounded each table with a heavy pot: “coffee?” Lifting the metal lids, balancing two plates on one arm, a the third in hand slid quietly in front of the diner, while at the next table, my colleagues did the same. It all felt so choreographed. Most nights, I enjoyed moving efficiently through the room in my little black polyester uniform with white ruffly apron, the night planned out – a beginning, middle and end around courses of a mass meal. Finally, worried I’d be doomed to this work for the rest of my life, I swore waitressing off and headed to Japan with the idea of learning how to make seiketei – Japanese rock gardens. But that’s another story.

I wonder how many of us finally land a way to make money that is really right for us? Something that gives us pleasure — or at least, does not defeat us body and soul? And for how long does it remain so? For now, I watch my daughters new pleasure at making bacon-egg sandwiches and coffee and hope she always finds a way.

A Quiet Thanks

I like Thanksgiving. Gathering with loved ones to reflect on gratitude, if only for a moment before digging into the scripted menu. What’s not to like about that? But this year, I am delighted by our plan for the day: Molly and I will search for an open Chinese restaurant and share a meal together, ordered off a menu. Later, stuffed with dumplings and rice, we will meet up with Rob and tumble across the street to share pies and wine with our dear friends from the neighborhood. I am grateful for the luxury of this day and my daughter’s emerging rebel spirit. Really, Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays — but sometimes, the timing just isn’t right.

Molly is tired after an activity packed autumn with barely an evening to herself. And Friday launches retail madness month with harried, long work days. We are happy to duck out of any requirements – no place to go, nothing to make. Oh, enticing invitations came our way – and I even considered hosting myself – but when Molly said, “I don’t want to go anywhere.” my heart soared. Yes! I don’t either.  So why should we? The flip-side of the lack of doting relatives around to show up at Molly’s plays, concerts, graduations, etc., she and I are free of that feeling of requirements. We don’t have to go anywhere. We can do whatever we want. My siblings are the same as me – although we do keep Christmas day precious – they dutifully, and I hope with some glimmer of joy, make the trip out of the city to celebrate at our house – a homage to the only kid in the family.  Today, nothing is required of us and for that and so much more, I am grateful. I will reflect on that as I dig in to my … hmm, maybe I’ll have sushi.

Just a Story

The other day I ran into my friend’s mother, L. We’ve known each other so long and we have such a mutual affection, she is also my friend.  L is also a suicide widow — her youngest child was my daughter’s age when her husband killed himself. Her daughter and I became friends just after this happened and I recall the shadow of sadness that hovered over their home. But the other day when L and I stood in the bookstore parking lot chatting, she said: “It was 36 years ago. You know, now when I tell the story, I think ‘isn’t that terribly sad’ as if it were someone else”.  Time has turned an awful tragedy into a story she tells dispassionately.

For most of my life, I compulsively filled pages of my journal. I still have them all and sometimes crack a tattered notebook for a glimpse of what I was seeing and feeling during a certain time and place. But not much. I don’t really need to remember every joy or more likely, angst.  I recall wondering when I was in high school, why I felt the need to write things down, half-believing that if I did not record it, it didn’t really happen. Oh, if that were true! Now, when I think about writing — about N’s suicide, my bout with cancer, M’s premature birth — I realize for me, writing is a kind of alchemy.  As if by focusing on telling it, the once-unbearable loses the power to haunt me. The balm of time gets speeded up, a healing distance is created.  In telling the story, it becomes just a story. And perhaps, also remembrance.

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