Category: Seasonal Musings

Writer’s Block

This morning, I’m stumped. I write a sentence, start an idea and delete. Inspiration eludes me. I try to be disciplined about posting to this blog at least once a week and usually, something is percolating by the time I sit down at my keyboard. Something.

Nature never lets me down – some sweet moment in the yard sets me off on a trail of thought leading to something else I can put into words. Yesterday I picked a salad’s worth of arugala from beneath the newly fallen layer of leaves but beyond that, I don’t know what to write.

Arugala gets me thinking about food. I love to read about food but hesitate to write about it since I’m not really a foodie. But I do make a delicious and always different granola. I need to make a batch today as this bowl is the last of it. Oats mixed with a neutral tasting oil, honey, a dash of vanilla and cinnamon spread on a baking sheet in the oven. Turn often until browned to your taste. When cool, add the rest — nuts, raisins, coconut, flax and wheat germ for an even healthier boost.

So easy to make and much cheaper than buying it. I’ve also started making my own yogurt (also featured here sliding in next to my granola) seduced by this video from this site The Daily Grommet I sometimes visit when I should be doing other things.  It’s a simple thermos kind of thing easily improvised – but I was a sucker and bought the whole shebang. It came with two packets of yogurt mix made from the milk of New Zealand cows and did make 2 perfect batches – but buying more of these packets is pricey and defeats the purpose a bit. I’ve used a few recipes from other websites and have come up with some delicious, although still slightly runny batches.

If I wasn’t slightly embarrassed to tell you what I was reading I could write about it. But put it this way: I am reading said unnamed book (currently on the best-seller list) while I watch television (Jon Steward, Stephen Colbert) – it’s not deep or particularly good and we’ll leave it at that. I did read a delightful book (not in front of the tv) recently by a Jennifer Wilson who took a sabbatical from her life in the States to go live with her husband and two little kids in the little town in Croatia where her ancestor’s came from. Running Away to Home  often made me laugh out-loud – she’s very funny with a self-deprecating humor. Jennifer affectionately captures this tiny little village and the characters who live there. I appreciated the glimpse of Croatia – so much a part of my life still tangled with memories of sadder times.

Were I traveling of course there would be no shortage of inspiration, but for now I am content with armchair journeys and following the delightful accounts of not one, but two of my friends’ trips to Thailand. Coincidentally, they were both there in the middle of record rains and floods — but still had great adventures. Check them out.

So there, I’ve written a post. A reminder to myself to just start writing.

Wisdom in a Wall

The leaves of our big maple tree seem to be plunging from their branches. I can see other trees in the distance also raining foliage.  Perhaps shedding quickly lest more damage be done by premature snowfall. Were such a thing possible, it looks like a mass tree anxiety attack manifesting in this strange storm of spinning, torpedoing, floating leaves. Just watching the chaos almost triggers one in me: my heart rate increases and jaw sets.

CHANGE seems set on fast speed today. There is catching up to do. (although we actually gained an hour with clock shifts) Or else? Why the anxiety? That’s the question that gets me. It’s an abstract sense of things happening out of control — and maybe those things are not good. That’s my default. But, rather than let my day get railroaded by this irrational anxiety, (triggered by falling leaves?? yikes) I will finish yesterday’s project of rescuing a tree from bittersweet.

Yesterday, with my heavy-duty lopper and a few choice cuts with a chain saw I cleared the lower trunk of the oak.  The woody vines were so thick, this strangling sucker must have been there for years. How had I missed it?  The tree is set by the road, ambiguously close to my neighbor’s overgrown plot and surrounded by the privet hedge and a sprawling forsythia we mostly ignore. Not until yesterday did I notice the trunk of this oak tree was being swallowed — the orange berries gave the culprit away.

For over an hour I tore at and chopped at the vines, pulling branches and years of debris away from the trunk. I followed the trail of bittersweet, yanking, pulling, cutting — and uncovered a beautiful stone wall. Smothered for years, these great old stones set tightly together, have been here, invisible beneath the bramble.  A forgotten foundation weathering crazy seasons, storms and bittersweet. From my window, I cannot see the stone wall just beyond the hedge, but I know it is there and remembering it, my heart slows. The leaves continue their frenetic fall. I breathe easy. 

Too Soon

Unlike yesterday’s leaden start, this morning’s light is bright and stunning. From the warmth of my bed, newly made with a winter quilt, I push the curtain aside to see the tree-tops from a nearby wood. Swaying in the wind, still-green leaves shiver on the branches they clung to through yesterday’s freak snow storm. Downstairs, I peered out at the yard, surveying the damage: a large branch down, fallen on our raised bed. It broke off of a tree we’ve discussed taking down so we could have more light for the new veggie patch. Nature has done the work for us. The only ‘line down’ is our laundry line that had been attached to ‘Weepy’ our 10 year old willow tree, now laying across the lawn. Weepy had been struggling these last few years, only a few sad sprouts of live branches, an almost silly spray of green. Clearly dying, it still supported our drying clothes and towels through the seasons, its distance from the house was an easy pull on the line from the porch.

After donning rubber boots, I stepped outside into the slush to retrieve the newspaper. The frigid air smells like winter. Squirrels frantically scramble around and up trees, their cheeks fat with supplies. In the distance I hear a flock of geese protesting as they fly, “Too soon! Too soon!”

Changing Seasons, Stocked Shelves

Foliage-drama is lacking this autumn. Summer droughts and rains, hurricane Irene are all reasons cited for this ‘blah’ fall. Even the usual spectacular reds of my maple tree have yet to appear, the leaves dropping more brown than red. But the flip side is that days are mostly warm and we’ve yet to turn the heat on or even start a blaze in the fireplace and there is still a meal’s worth of swiss chard to harvest from the garden. 

But it’s time to get ready. Today, we will cover the draftiest old windows on this house with plastic.  I’ll retrieve wooly sweaters and corduroy pants from a plastic bin I happily packed away back in May. With far less pleasure, shorts, cotton blouses and flowing skirts (I rarely wear – but somehow, always imagine I might) will get tucked into storage until next spring.

Like the squirrels, I have been hoarding sustenance for the long, dark nights ahead – making piles throughout the house of books to see me through the season.  I picked up Ann Patchett’s Truth & Beauty from the sale bookshelf at the library (my bus-man’s holiday) because I enjoyed State of Wonder and this ode to her friendship with fellow writer Lucy Grealy has often caught my eye. I also picked up A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah for $2 – a former best-seller I never read. At work I have snagged a few advanced reader’s copies including Thrity Umrigar’s new The World We Found and a first novel by Ayad Akhtar, American Dervish described as “A stirring and explosive debut novel about an American Muslim family struggling with faith and belonging in the pre-9/11 world.”

Bring on the cold nights and light the fire, I’m ready to read.

To Every Season

Something about autumn – my pining for summer has (mostly) faded and changing leaves, temperature and wardrobe triggers a vague hankering. I too, think about changing. Oh, only abstractly.  My daughter is a junior in high school so I’m not going anywhere yet and savor these last sure two years of her at home. But then… I have begun to think: what next?

I would also be a bit of a fool were I not to ponder this question.  With the business in such a state of flux, who knows how much longer I will have my lovely gig at the bookstore? I should think of alternatives. And I like to.  ‘Alternative’ is a way of being that I embrace – that’s the direction I’d head. This long spell of diligently working 40 plus hours a week, maintaining the mortgage, the life – the stability my daughter craves and loves, has had plenty of joys – and is hopefully not quite over yet. But still healthy, strong and with my wits about me, it’s not terrible for me to imagine doing other things to bring in the bucks. I remind myself not worry too much about the reading-gadget wars and online shopping closing down this era in my life — and have started reading up on raising Alpacas…

Soup’s On

Between work and my daughter’s insane school-sports-social schedule, the week was frenetic and I am still spinning. Tuesday night was exciting at the bookstore as we hosted the launch of the Echook Memoir I app – a digital publication. (It includes a piece by me!) I played host and also participant, mingling with a lovely group of people. Delightful.

A certain amount of busy-ness is usually a good thing for me, forcing me to be productive and energized. But I also like being home so welcome today – Saturday. I am mostly free to clean the mess and chaos of the house and cook my way through a few weeks of vegetables stored in the fridge.

I began last night by salvaging a head of escarole lodged behind some left-overs. A few leaves were just beginning to freeze from being flattened against the back. I cubed up a red onion remaining from a meal I don’t remember, threw in a crazy amount of minced garlic, scrubbed up a few farm carrots and potatoes with olive oil, then added the roughly chopped escarole, stirring until it wilted. Salt, pepper a box of vegetable stock simmered until the potatoes and carrots were tender. A can of white beans added just before we were ready to eat. Molly even had a bowl, although she rejected the bitter green that inspired the dish in the first place. Soup season begins!

Season Switch

One afternoon last week a cold wind began to blow and in the course of a few hours, the weather switched from summer heat to an autumn chill. Summer’s final days usually make me melancholy — the end of long hours of light and evenings of warmth. Not this year. I feel done with the heat, ready to drag my sweaters out and stop feeling guilty about neglecting the garden.

Between relentless high temperatures, the groundhog’s appetite, invisible creatures that made skeletons of my chard, and my own neglect, the garden is mostly a mess. I wade through weeds to salvage what veggies remain. A variety of peppers, a handful of cherry tomatoes and an eggplant or two.

Basil is hanging in there. But mostly, it’s a wash-out. One sunflower lays bent in the garden although I planted over a hundred seeds.

In a nod to autumn growing possibilities, I replaced the remains of the hanging petunia with a mum but otherwise, am ready to let it all go.  There are still a few weeks left of my CSA vegetable deliveries. Squash, black kale, potatoes and carrots galore fill the crisper in my very small fridge. I am ready to make soups and other slow cooking meals to fill the house with smells of simmering garlic, onions and herbs.

I retrieved my fuzzy slippers and heavy robe from the back of the closet to bundle up for these morning sessions. This quiet hour of writing is now dark and cold. While I sit, morning light gradually seeps into the room and so the day begins. I am ready.

 

Trusting the Universe

Post hurricane, the yard is covered with branches and leaves and in the distance, chain saws grind away at fallen tree trunks. We got off easy at our house – not even losing electricity. I wasn’t worried about what the storm might bring. I used up all my anxiety worrying about Molly’s safe arrival from England. She landed less than 12 hours before New York airports were closed down and until then, I was a neurotic mess. The hurricane certainly made things worse but regardless, I am anxious when my daughter flies.  The powerlessness I feel as she passes through the departure gate is intense. It eases when I know she is with her English family but engulfs me again when I know she is making her way back to me.

Molly was only a few months old when I had my first episode of terrifying vulnerability – a sense of being completely unable to protect my child from the world’s dangers. The sidewalks near my flat in Zagreb were narrow, the roofs of the shops slanted, and the tram line only inches away from the curb. Usually, this was a lovely, benign route to push baby Molly along in her carriage on the way to the market or just to get some air. On one sunny winter morning, snow was beginning to melt, and icy drifts began falling from the rooftops at least 3 stories high, walloping unfortunate pedestrians passing below. What if a mass of snow and ice were to fall on my sleeping baby? I gripped the carriage and walked quickly, then slowly – as if I might guess where the next avalanche might fall.  But how could I? I realized then that this is my lot as a mother. There is only so much power I have. While I will nurture and protect and love my child with all my heart, I also better trust in the universe. I needed to venture out into the world without infecting her with fear.  Slowly, my panic eased as I turned onto my tree lined street, carried the pram up the stairs to our flat, pushed open the door, lifted now smiling Molly and held her to my beating heart.

Saturday Kayaking

Recently, I have been wondering about a lovely author who came to the store for a signing more than 10 years ago.  Mary Parker Buckles lived on an island off one of the towns just south of Norwalk.  So close to this mad world of insane traffic, strip malls and a population scrambling in pursuit of the dollar, she lived in a perfect little pocket of nature out on the water – and paid beautiful attention.  A search leads me to Margins, her exquisite, now out-of-print book, otherwise there is not a sign of her on the cyber highway. Which seems perfect. I like to think she is still out there, so close but very much away from it all.  I fantasize a bit about having that be my life. Especially after yesterday’s amazing afternoon of kayaking.

Clear skies, a slight breeze and the incoming tide pushed us along with the occasional heave. As we paddled towards the islands, schools of tiny fish broke the surface of the water. First they splashed to the right of us, then to the left, then further out – a teasing chorus line of glittering fairy-like-fish.  As we came into a cove of the first island, a large egret stood beautifully white against the green marsh grass, posing elegantly before lifting off towards the trees.

Around the next bend, the water opens up and the Long Island is the only piece of land – hazy in the distance. From that expanse of water, we saw what looked like a moving head with something protruding out of the water. “What’s that?” we both said almost simultaneously and agreed it must be a snorkeler although there was no boat nearby and the swimmer was a bit far out.  We paddled closer and saw  —

Seeing deer is old-hat for some people but they don’t hang around my neighborhood much and I still thrill at the sight of one so close. And this one was swimming! From where? We followed — “not too close,” I said to Rob who, I think wanted to pet the creature.  It scrambled out of the water and bolted for the trees.

Then we found this little spot and for a bit, pretended it was ours. And for as long as we lingered there, swimming, sunning on the bit of weathered wood tacked onto the jetty, waves sloshing beneath us — it was.

Antidote to Doldrums

I had an insight yesterday. Not headline-making, just personal. On a minuscule scale, I experienced the rather well documented theory that being active helps to combat depression. Who really knows what brings on a ‘funk’ but my downer may have sprung from a day book-ended by doctor’s visits, first for me and later in the afternoon, my daughter.  I had rare hours to myself for much of the afternoon and made the mistake of spending an inordinate amount of time thinking and getting anxious about the fact that I have decided to have my ovaries out at the end of September.  Precautionary. Something not too suspicious looking, but still something, is on one of them — and rather than go through a battery of tests — I blithely said, “just take ’em out!” Then I started reading (ah the danger of the internet!) about the surgery and recovery time and got, well… depressed.  It crept up on me, heavy feelings turning into walls of gloom I couldn’t quite see over. Rather, this doom crept out of me like a miserable, hibernating sloth that’s been hiding away within me like a miserable parasite just waiting for the moment to return.  And then, by the skin of my teeth, I managed to pull myself out of paralysis.  Grabbing some clippers, I forced myself to get up and make the rounds in my very overgrown yard.  August isn’t much for flowers but I managed to find these  and more importantly, I chased the threatening gloom away by participating in, paying attention to and moving in nature.  And it started by getting my ass out of the chair.

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