Tag: nature

Another Anniversary

This is a fraught time of year for me. Vivid morning light, the new green of trees against an impossibly blue sky, porcelain beauty of the Dogwood blooms and the perfume of Lilac in the air are all stunning — but for me, all are triggers. Even before my mind, the cells of my body remember – my shoulders knot, my jaw clenches and my heart beats faster with an anxiety I can’t account for. During these last days of April, an echo begins like a breeze turning into a wind, as vivid and weighted as the light and branches. A darkness hovers even with all this light — leading up to May 1 when my husband ended his life. Even 8 years later.

A friend who has worked with me since that terrible time told me the other day that I was a different person before and after. The wound-up stress of this week reminded me of how I felt before: always wondering what bad thing would happen next. For years I stayed, feeding a hope that seemed impossibly locked away in the sad cage of my imagination – that my husband would get well and our life would be normal. Normal was all I wanted anymore – not extraordinary. My friend said, after his death, I just blossomed – became lighter and joyful. It almost feels wrong to write that – but it is the truth. I felt lighter. Of course there was anger, shock, sadness, anger, anger, and an awful grief — but also relief. His terrible, final act did free me from the awful life he had woven around us in his crazy drug quest. And with time, I felt joy again – joy I’d forgotten could exist. Still, each spring, an ember of sadness – once hope, is fanned by spring breezes and memories of the tortured soul I once loved.

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?

Chicken? Falcon? …Turkey

I’ve thought of calling this blog: Walking the Dog because it’s often where I get my inspiration. Our little neighborhood jaunts together are often the closest I come to meditating. I am mostly internally focused but still aware of the seasons, the little changes day-to-day in the trees, the garden, the woods along my walk. Sometimes, Tetley and I have real adventures like the other night when we encountered a neighbor also walking her dog — and what appeared to be, a chicken. 

It wasn’t really her chicken – so not for the first, nor last time, we got ‘the box’. The box for water, food, the shirt no one wants and the promise of a night in our breezeway. The more we looked at this little guy, the less we thought it a chicken – or any domestic bird. As it fluffed its wings and strutted about on very talon-like feet, we decided it must be a raptor. Except it was awfully friendly.

It particularly liked hanging out on shoes – although I think if it could have climbed into my lap it would have. We called a 24 hour wildlife hotline and the guy said, put it back. So we carried the little bundle of feathers back across the street to the neighbor’s newly mulched patch of a few yards, set it down and quickly walked away. The thing followed us, practically tripping me as I crossed the street. Street. That’s where we found it. Not the woods. Cat-hunting ground. So of course, we did not leave it.

The next morning, still thinking it was a little falcon baby, (we fed it dry dog food moistened with warm water – it ate it) I brought it out and it picked at the grass. I hoped it might try and fly away back to mommy. I kept my eye on the sky looking for the amazing hawk (or whatever it is) I often see in the trees and circling the sky around here. Only airplanes and robins soared by. Finally, shortly after 9 AM, Wildlife in Crisis, a volunteer run organization in Weston that maintains a “nurture center” called me back and said, “It’s probably a wild turkey.” He dismissed our falcon identification because raptors wouldn’t be walking. And this thing was like a puppy under my feet.

So, it’s there now, with other baby turkeys, a full grown deer laying on a stretcher because of a birth defect that left its feet all mangled. (it was expected to live for only a few weeks and instead, has lived as this strange invalid for years. Ah, the power of love) Also perched around the small room are sea gulls, a spectacular wood duck, teeny cages of hummingbirds. And this was just in the reception area – there are other buildings housing other creatures. I’d actually been there a few years ago with an injured sea gull stuck in the B&N parking lot. Such patients are accepted with little fan-fare by this serious crew of volunteers and donations are encouraged.

A Different Color

We are painting the exterior of our house for the first time in the 15 years I have lived here. Actually, to be clear, Rob is painting. While he climbs the ladder, I stand guard and hand him buckets, drenching the roller in the Rookwood-Jade as needed. Like the musician he is, he has composed the entire job to be done, in his head. And dancer-like, he moves around the house, stretching his long arms in fluid movements. The peak is done, and this part, just visible over the hedge, makes it already look like a different house. The happy house it is.

I wonder why we didn’t do this sooner? Apart from the fact that the paint had worn off so much of the aluminum siding (yes, we are painting aluminum siding) that sometimes, the reflection of the sun was blinding, our home begged a new look. For many of the years I lived here, these walls defined a space of pain and sadness. Behind these walls I worried, I railed, I yelled and finally, I grieved about my husband’s addiction, his suicide. Living that way became so a part of me that I fear proclaiming the sweet serenity of now, might jinx it.

But as the shabby-white becomes a meditative green, the house seems to fuse with the landscape –  the lush hedge, the maples and oaks.  Spring is emerging like a profound exhale, and our sweet abode breathes deeply too.

Books to Show Me the Way

I am reading two books that happened to be reviewed in this week’s New York Time’s Book Review. Birds of a Lesser Paradise: Stories by Megan Mayhew Bergman and Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed.  The reviews are good and I feel glad for the authors for the attention they are getting — as if they are  my friends. Isn’t this the kind of connection and loyalty a good book inspires?

Birds of a Lesser Paradise is a collection of exquisite short stories that I have been savoring for more than a month. Like expensive European chocolate I want to make last. Rather than race through, the book sits by my bed for times I am alert enough to fully indulge. The writing is gorgeous, full of sentences that demand to be re-read. Not to beat the food imagery to death, but lest you think I am talking about bon-bons, these stories are like salty-sweet concoctions. They are deep. Against the backdrop of fantastic landscapes of nature and animals, we glimpse lives of loss and loneliness. Thoughts of them linger long after the story is done, demanding time to fully resonate.  Polly Rosenwaike ends her review of Birds by saying she “… wished it would send us deeper into the woods, and more fiercely stalk the mysteries that elude us, disturb us, tear us apart.” Of course readers’ experiences vary — but I disagree with Polly. For me, it is the subtle echoing quality to these stories that gives them their power. They don’t bash you in the head – they are not fierce. And need not be. And there is also the sheer joy of reading such fine writing.

Dani Shapiro‘s review of Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild, about a grief-driven, remarkable journey of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail is an author’s dream. The review is thoughtful, quite moving — and makes me want to drop everything and just read. Forget the laundry, the rest of the Times and curl up with Wild for the rest of the day. I am not quite 20 pages into the book but am already struck by the honesty, the intelligent yet raw writing. And she certainly is fearless: would you head off alone on a 1,100 mile jaunt in the wilderness? The results are riveting. Dani Shapiro writes “”Wild” isn’t a concept-generated book, that is, one of those projects that began as a good, salable idea. Rather, it started out as an experience that was lived, digested and deeply understood. Only then was it fashioned into a book – one that is both a literary and human triumph.” When I read that I thought, “That’s what I want a reviewer to say about my book.”

Bravo to these writers — and thanks for the inspiration. I feel galvanized to go back to my revisions and more bravely bare my heart.

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.

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’)

Going On


I find myself still looking at the stories and images of the mother who lost her parents and her beautiful children in a fire on Christmas morning. I study them as if I might identify what enables her to survive such loss.  Photos from the funeral captured the bewildered, distraught faces of mother and father watching the coffins of their daughters being carried into the church. Her face crumpled in grief, his raw with pain. How will they go on? How do us humans do it?  What is it that keeps us going, through those horrible minutes, hours, days, weeks, months? Perhaps only years will make the ache sear less.

Heartbreaking stories like this one can be found in some community, every day. This one haunts me because it happened only minutes from where I live.  They did not live in a war zone or a blighted ghetto – she had everything and still lost it all. If it can happen to her…

And yet I look at her and marvel: she bravely comforts the father of her children, sharing stories of her beautiful girls and making plans for their remembrance. Making plans. Carrying on. She will carry on with this business of living even as, (I can’t help imagining) she wishes she were dead. The human spirit is magnificent.

We lose the ones we love most in the world — and yet, continue to live. Most of us still find a way. Such losses can seem  impossible from the outside. Part of me wants to turn away from this terrible story, it feels wrong and voyeuristic to want to know more. But I cannot help wanting to, even as I observe with dread. As if I might see how to arm myself against comparable experiences. This same thing is unlikely to happen to me, but there is no escape from what life doles out to us and something else as terrible might again. How would I go on?

We all eventually lose what may seem to be the source of all love — a lover, a spouse loses their soulmate, a child loses a parent, and most horrible of all – a mother loses her children, and still find the will to live. Slowly, slowly finding moments of laughter, once again discovering the beauty in light and recognizing  the myriad of feelings beyond the numbing punch of grief that once threatened to end it all. How? Many have the comfort of their faith guiding them through. But even those of us without the clarity of belief in the wisdom or  master plan of a God, there is something greater than the fear of death that keeps most of us going.

I see around these parents, a beauty glimmering like a haze softening the curtain of anguish. Somehow, in the darkness of mourning we must sense something, some light of hope.  Or perhaps we see it reflected in those who gather to comfort us. In a New York Times article on the funeral a man who only shared the same church with the family called out to the children’s father as he passed by “Brother, I love you,” and according to the man the father reached over and said “I love you, too.” Perhaps that’s it – what drives us forward from our loss, just love.

Looking Up

Today is my first day ‘off’ in 8 days. Frantic, grueling days of holiday retail. By the evening, I arrive home exhausted and wound up like a ‘Chatty-Cathy’ with a stuck string. Even after a glass of red, the reel of the day still whirrs through my head keeping me from my longed-for slumber.

I marvel at people — including a few of my colleagues — who work more than one job and routinely put in 50 to 60 hours a week or more, sometimes 7 days a week. And I’m grateful that other than this time of year, I don’t have to. I really enjoy the constant buzzing of people around books — just not for 8 days straight. Being ‘on’ and rushed does not make for good living — at least not the kind of living I’m interested in.

But thanks to my dog, I discovered a quick-fix.  A simple thing to do, almost like an instant-meditation. When Tetley first scratched at the door insisting he needed to go out, I complained a bit but pulled on a jacket, clicked on his leash and went out into the night.  The moon was almost full and spectacular in the night sky. I looked up and kept looking up. Just that – looking up – the beat of my heart slowed. I feel this any time I look up – to gaze at trees, a bird soaring across the sky, the clouds.  Such a simple thing – looking up – calms and inspires me to breathe deeply. Perhaps it’s the reminder of things greater than myself?

 

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