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Fleeting Summer

These days the seasons seem to change back-and-forth between autumn and summer – almost daily.  This morning, the sky thick with clouds, I dug a sweatshirt out of the closet to ward against the chill, while yesterday was hot enough to kayak.  We rode wide heaving waves out just beyond the first island and then, with our paddles out of the water, lolled luxuriously in the heat of the sun while the current and tides carried us back to shore. Climbing out of the boat, as relaxed and mellow as if I’d just had a massage, I wondered if this would be our last day a-float for the season.  There may be the sweet Indian Summer day or two, but with less daylight, it’s tricky to find the time to get out on the water.

So yesterday, I studied the horizon, the school of tiny fish leaping out of the water in a flash of silver, and each salty, deep breath I took in, came out as a sigh, the melancholy that comes with the end of something wonderful.  A sense of this being the end of things makes everything more vivid – our mind’s way, perhaps, of preserving memories.  At least, this is what I do: psychically save scenes of beauty and peace to conjure up when I need them – in the dentist’s chair, for example.  When the metal scraping in my mouth seems unbearable, I transport myself back to the heat of seashells as I lay on the beach of an island on the Sound with only the plaintive sound of seagulls and rhythmic waves around me.

Remembering Life in a War

Washing potatoes for tonight’s meal, I left the tap open, luxuriating in the flow of water until flashing-back to my life during the war in Bosnia and Croatia. Faucets were always dry and water was eked out for cooking, drinking and personal hygiene.  As a UN staff member, my hardship was only temporary since I was able to cross checkpoints and borders for a hot bath and cappuccino. Unlike the thousands trapped by the insane war, I could leave.

On this late-summer evening, I imagine a woman somewhere in Sarajevo, also standing by her sink and wonder how often she thinks of those days of dry taps, dark nights and fear? For me, these moments are only occasional, after all, it wasn’t my embattled land. Yet for a few years, it was a war I lived in and was almost addicted to. I wonder what it’s like there, more than a decade later? I want to sit in my imagined woman’s kitchen, and hear her tale of recovery.  Will it be like my own? I know something of processing pain and losses on a personal level – perhaps that is the only way one does.  But war on one’s own street, neighborhood, country certainly widens the net of tragedy.

One day, I would like to return to Knin, Vukovar, to Sarajevo, and share a coffee, a glass of wine with my sisters, to listen to their stories.  Meanwhile, I will try better to remember the preciousness of washing and cooking my food, taking a shower, cleaning clothes and having a light to read by.

Summer Eating

Some days, I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about what to make for dinner. I may start first thing in the morning or while I am making a salad or sandwich to take to work. I assess what’s in the refrigerator and imagine turning my on-hand ingredients into a meal everyone will love. By 3 pm, I’m planning in earnest, deciding if I need to stop on the way home to pick something up. From Trader Joe’s it might be cheese (a great selection and reasonably priced) or from Whole Foods – a whole-wheat lavash or, around the corner from us, Stew Leonard’s for a good piece of meat or chicken.

From June through October, the menu is determined by what what I pick up on Wednesday in my CSA share.  If there’s corn in the box, I’ll boil water so we can eat it right away since the sooner corn is eaten after picking, the more delicious it is. A bounty of torpedo onions over the past couple of weeks became French Onion soup on one of last week’s rainy, cool days by caramelizing thinly sliced onions for close to an hour with a dash of some dry booze and some beef stock. I threw a chunk of baguette into each bowl (SoNo Bakery – gorgeous small-batch bread) grated and melted jarlsberg on top. Yum.

Last week, our meals were particularly tomato and egg-centric.  Our CSA box has been heavy with luscious tomatoes and we took care of our neighbors’ 7 chickens.  Every afternoon, we walked down to their yard and pulled open the coop door to release the clucking mass of feathers so they could peck the grass while we raked their pen, gave them more food and were rewarded with an average of 5 exquisite little eggs a day. (much more fun than taking care of a cat!)

An omelette filled with sauteed shallots and swiss chard one night, scrambled eggs with black beans, jalapeno and corn folded into a lavash, both got smothered with fresh salsa. With my handy little chopping gadget, it takes only moments to turn a tomato, a jalapeno from my own garden, cilantro, half an onion and a squeeze of lime juice, into a tangy sauce.

Today:  green beans, very bitter arugala, handful of potatoes, peppers, tomatoes, basil and those beautiful little eggs… fritata? My favorite food sites are always full of inspiration: http://www.101cookbooks.com/, http://markbittman.com/, http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/the_wednesday_chef/ and http://www.breakawaycook.com/blog/

Beyond Noise

From where I sit at the table by the window, lit by a slant of morning sun, the hum of the highway sounds louder than usual. Most of the time, the traffic is white noise, a whooshing punctuated by the louder roars of trucks, motorcycles. There are few places in Norwalk to escape the sound of automobiles. On the other side of town, the Meritt Parkway is another artery of noise. And in-between these two major roadways is the Post Road – a constant shifting gears as cars and buses crawl along between stop lights.

The best chance to escape is on the Long Island Sound, early in the morning or in the evening, and better on a weekday.  But even out on the water, there is rarely silence. Motor boats speed by, sending heaving waves into our boat. But worst is the hysterical motor-grinding of jet-skis around and around.  And of course, there are always airplanes, although the drone is so distant and quickly gone, they are easy to ignore.

Usually, I try not focus on man-made noises, instead tuning-in to sounds like summer insects. The volume of the Cicadas seems to change as the temperature does and at night, there is a different chorus of blaring bugs.  I notice the birds: the soft-drumming of a Downy Woodpecker on the stump of elm, the chirps of the Cardinal family, the weird, squawking Parrots (yes, Parrots!) swooping through to eye our trees. I let the dog out to bark at them, hoping to discourage nest-building intentions. Out by the butterfly bush, bees vibrate by and dragon-flys so close, I hear the extraordinary flutter of their wings.

Of course, I prefer these sounds of nature to the cacophony of man so try to cultivate a selective awareness.  There’s the key: of course my state-of- being affects my perceptions, and this week, I have been tightly wired and not particularly ‘conscious’. Triggered perhaps, by anticipating my daughter’s return from England and the always stressful trip to the airport to retrieve her.  She is home now, safe and sleeping upstairs, but the discombobulated feeling remains. Even the usually unobtrusive soundtrack of my daily life unsettles me.  After days of being irritated by everything around me, I admit to being the source of my own discomfort. I suspect it is because I have not been writing nor doing yoga – my anchors to peace.

Less than an hour ago, my focus was on what seemed the maddening noise of the highway. As my attention shifted, it was the birds I heard, the neighbor calling to her children, my fingers tapping on this keyboard, and finally, as I reel myself in closer to my elusive center, I find silence.

Tetley

Last night, we lost our dog.  It was almost dark when Tetley slipped out the door past me as we returned from a sunset-kayak.  I imagined him running out to greet Rob who was in the driveway pulling the boat off the car. A few minutes later, I was in the kitchen making dinner and hearing Rob come in the front door, called to him to please get Tetley back inside.  Usually, it only takes the sound of cutlery to bring Tetley dashing into the kitchen eager for a handout, so I was surprised he had yet to make an appearance.

Rob whistled and called into the shadowy yard and across to the neighbors’ house. His Maltese girlfriend lives there and her owners often grill dinner outside, the smokey meat smells irresistible to him.  No neighbors and no Tetley.  Wild animals venture out at this hour – particularly skunks. It’s been awhile since he’s tangled with one but I wanted it to be longer still.  I abandoned our dinner of tomatoes and arugala and joined Rob outside in calling and whistling, walking along the densely wooded section.  Earlier in the afternoon, Tetley dashed over through the neighbor’s yard towards those woods before I halted him with a stern command to come back.  He’s a good dog and he did – but perhaps, he’d remembered his earlier aborted adventure and snuck away to continue it.

I walked slowly along the overgrown stretch, calling and whistling, aiming my flashlight into the leaves. Another neighbor, out on his porch for a smoke, warned me about the family of raccoons that venture out from the wood every night. He joined me in calling “Tetley!” at the top of our lungs.  I heard his bark, just twice – it sounded like it was coming from somewhere in there. At least he was alive.

In over a decade of living here, I never ventured into this stretch of overgrown wood backing onto about 6 houses on the neighboring street but I was going in tonight. I hurried home and changed into jeans, sweatshirt, rubber boots and garden gloves (poison ivy) and climbed up over the rocks into those woods I have peered into or ignored so many thousands of times over the years. Rob lit the way for me as I ducked under branches, shuffled through the crackling leaves and branches, all the while, calling to Tetley and begging him to bark again.  We imagined him stuck in a hole. ‘Ratter’ that he is, he often pursues creatures between rocks and into their dens. Was he stuck?  I heard a bark again.  Strong at least but I couldn’t figure out from where.  Why wasn’t he coming to us?

Rob drove around the block, whistling and calling.  I returned home and stood by the end of our property staring into the dark, willing him to bark again, staring hard into the shadows as if he might appear, tail wagging, ears alert.  How we love this dog!  And to make matters worse, M’s away in England until Tuesday.  What if we never find him? Enough with dear ones disappearing out of her life. I cannot imagine having to deliver such news to her again.

I was angry when my late husband came home with this tiny Cairn Terrier hidden in his big coat.  It was an evening close to Christmas and I sat reading in bed and my daughter lay sprawled at the foot of it, watching television.  He came into the room grinning as he flashed open his big woolen coat to reveal to me, a scruffy puppy.  Furious, I motioned to him to follow me downstairs, whispering to him as we left the room, “I said I didn’t want a dog!”  We had fostered a huge Golden Lab who terrorized our cat and although love-able, at one point, dragged M across the yard as she held onto the leash. We’d also attempted to adopt a Golden Retriever who had too many health problems for my patience or pocket book.  We were already struggling financially and emotionally with N’s addiction and I knew that a dog would just be one more thing for me to care of.

“All right. I’ll take him back,” he said, pressing the little guy to his chest. I thought: M will find out how I rejected the puppy and I’ll forever be the witch.  He was cute. And at least he was small.  In spite of myself, I touched him and that was it – I knew he was ours.  I followed N back upstairs as he announced to M he had a surprise for her and delivered little Tetley into her arms and she burst into tears of happiness.

Tetley is almost eight years old now and I cannot imagine my life with out him. None of us can.  He is Rob’s mascot, taking him with him whenever he can, even to work, tucked under his arm and ready to greet everyone with a lick and a wag.

Almost ten o’clock and my stomach in knots. Rob made a run to the store to buy bacon, sure the smell would entice Tetley to give up his pursuit of rodents or climb out of any hole, no matter how deep.  Out on our back deck, I wept, calling, whistling, straining to hear through the cacophony of insects for another bark. Rob opened the windows and turned on the fan in hopes of driving the smell of cooking meat outside.  I took his leash – another thing that inspires joy in him – and decided to walk around the block clicking it and calling.   He’d been gone for hours.

Tetley is not a wanderer, never venturing much beyond the border of the hedge that surrounds the yard.  I peered into the darkness of the woody yard of every house. Could he have gotten into and trapped in someone’s house or shed?  Why wouldn’t he bark? Rounding the corner onto the busy street, my heart in my throat, I searched the road. Another neighbor walking his black mutt came towards me and when I asked him if he’d seen Tetley he said, “Dante will find him.” and he turned to walk with me in the direction that I’d heard Tetley’s barks, now, too many hours ago.

We walked past our hedge and our neighbor’s manicured lawn towards the woods and heard Tetley’s bark strong and constant now.  Ecstatic, I ran up the steps into my neighbors’ yard towards the corner bordering the woods where their compost bin sits, I peered in and on top of a bed of corn husks, was Tetley!

This morning, our life feels sweet, the already beautiful day, even more so.  Last night’s reminder of how quickly and completely our lives can change when love gets lost, makes us grateful for our perfect present.

The Discipline of Neat

We finally trimmed the privet hedge surrounding our property – a task that has literally hovered over me  for most of the summer. Now, returning home in the car or from walking the dog, the place no longer looks  abandoned.  The  hedge had grown so high it took two of us to finish the job – I held the ladder steady while R swept the grinding teeth of the trimmer steadily across the top of the 8 foot growth. There is still a patch left because we need a higher ladder to reach the scraggly sprays, but this one bit of chaos is tolerable for now. Drooping oak branches also need trimming and the privet detritus needs to be raked out of the day lilies and hostas, but at a glance, the hedge looks neat and elegant. The psychological impact this has on me, is amazing.

I am reminded again that clearing bramble, maintenance of home and body, (my hair is often like the overgrown hedge) is as important for the spirit, as it is for aesthetics.

Inspired, I moved on to my car pulling stray bags, outdated coupons and receipts out of the back and from under the seats.  In the house I cleared surfaces – and now try to keep them so: immediately washing and putting away dishes, throwing out the mail I don’t need, keeping the newspapers, the magazines and books in a neat pile. I even tackled my closet, ruthlessly tossing clothes and shoes for Goodwill or garbage.

Of course, I have done this before – purged and cleaned and vowed to reform from messy to neat, high on the benefit of clarity that comes from clear space. The longest period that I managed to sustain this was when I lived in Kyoto. There, my tatami-mat bedroom was always pristine. Every morning I folded up my futon and quilts and shut them away in the closets.  I never left piles of clothes or papers about.  Of course, I lived alone then – it is enough of a challenge to reform myself, impossible to impose this on others.  But I will do my best to embrace this as my discipline – starting small: I will keep the tables clear, ready for plates of good food to eat together as the messy family we are.

August

The changing light of these early mornings reminds me that my favorite season is on the wane although there is a full month before school starts (thanks to my daughter, school still marks time for me) and many more days of sweltering heat and humidity yet ahead of us. But I mourn the passing of long daylight hours although I recognize that melancholy lends a sense of sweetness to every moment.  I savor the light, the heat – time. I take deeper breaths and almost taste the summer-scents of earth and grass and when the wind is right, the rich sea smell of the nearby Long Island Sound.  I reassure myself that there are a good two months or more of paddling to be had and still a promise of harvest from the garden.

My tomatoes are disappointing – some creature – (I suspect the squirrels) has found every fruit before me, gnawing some, devouring others.  The guilty rodent prefers the heirloom variety and we have yet to taste one. On the other hand, although I know it his favorite, the groundhog has ignored the patch of edamame and I see teeny little pods clustered in amongst the purple flowers. I have no complaint about the lettuce: just when I think we have had our final salad, I find more leaves hiding beneath the cucumber vines. I must remember to always, just keep looking.

Summer Weekend

Sunday – and I have barely touched my list of things to do. As always, if the weather allows, at the top is to get out on the water and yesterday, we did –  kayaking out around the islands, getting out to walk on sandbars and swimming – floating out where the snowy egrets feed, sparkling white against the green grasses and blue sky. It is easy to let the hours pass out there but eventually, the to-do-list beckons me, our stomachs rumble and we head back to shore.

The garden pays the price for these leisurely afternoons and the weeds are winning the battle.  I search between the green for things to pick and did make my kickin’ salsa with our jalapenos, one tomato from the garden and one from our CSA box, cilantro and red onion. So far, the only thing that the big pests have been eating are the eggplants. I have managed to pick only one slender purple-black fruit but now only find carved out shells of skin hanging on the vine. Since no one in my house particularly likes eggplant – including me, I consider them my decoy plants.  Except for bites out of tomatoes left by annoying squirrels, the lettuce, swiss chard, edamame and cukes have not been touched.  Of course, the mean-old ground hog who has decimated my garden in years past is probably just waiting for the lovely little soybean pods to appear before feasting.  But just in case we’re doing a vegetable swap here, I’m happy to sacrifice the melenzano.

Besides the housework, also getting short-shrift from me are the piles of New Yorker magazines, Sunday’s New York Times and an ever-growing stack of books. It seems impossible to keep up with it all. During my week away I managed to read three-weeks worth (does it really have to be a weekly?) dabbled in many memoirs and books but read The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman cover-to-cover loving every page.  Brilliantly rendered characters – each profiled in chapters that flesh out the life and death of a newspaper in Rome.  Now I am hooked in a ‘I don’t want to stop reading yet’ way on Little Bee by Chris Cleave, deservedly on the Best Seller List.  A page turner, with gorgeous writing.  I was particularly moved and impressed by his telling of grief – or rather, of aftermath of tragedy – because grief is too simple a word for the emotions in those of us left behind and he brilliantly, poignantly, captures the complexity of that undertow.

Artist Retreat

The walls of my bedroom are mostly windows, letting the cool morning air and sounds fill the space. Sitting on my bed, I feel as if I am outside. A bird has stopped to sing nearby and there is a brief flutter of wind from the wings of another, flying close. The river, continues like a relentless rain, churning over the rocks just across the way.

Today we must pack up and leave this lovely spot where, for the past week, 5 of us old friends have gathered to focus on our work – writing, drawing, playing the piano. We have done what we wanted, when we wanted to – seeking, at different times, either solitude or company and easily finding it. Effortlessly, scrumptious, healthy food was made, dishes washed, wine was poured.

This is the second year we have done this – gathered together as old friends, familiar and fond of each other. One of us said last year, it is that we have a common vocabulary. We recognize in each other, when to be silent, when conversation is welcome. We talk about anything together – and always, we laugh.

This week we walked the river together – climbing over slippery stones, stopping often to pick up the ones we could not resist hauling back with us. We swam in the sparkling swimming hole, letting the small falls beat on our backs, then slid down the rocks to float in the placid pool.  We sat on the porch, gathering around the table and then the chairs and the swing, catching up on time apart, remembering times and shared places of the past.

Rejuvenated, I am ready to go home and return to my family – my life of loving, of taking care of them, my dog, the garden. And hope to be back next year to do it again.

River Walk

This week away with my group of artist friends, I get to indulge my desire to write full time – at least for this week. With this lovely gift of time comes the problem of sitting for hours a day. I move from porch, to lawn, to chair to table – stretching in-between – but then return to write and thus, to sit.  Deciding I needed to move my body or suffer an increase in the pain I already could feel creeping into my hip, I went for a walk. Not wanting to repeat yesterday’s route, I crossed the street to the rocky-river bed and set off in my rubber shoes, to walk downstream.

Weaving at times, like I’d had to much to drink, I grabbed boulders to steady myself and search for firmer footing before moving on over the rocks, in and out of the water. Soon I felt in a trance, marveling at how sure I felt with each step.  Off in the distance, I heard the rumbling of a storm and rain drops fell.  The sounds of the babbling river seemed – a chorus of conversations at once familiar but incomprehensible – babel, indeed.

Again, I felt drawn to continue on around every bend, and then the next passing under a bridge where tadpoles darted, around a perfect swimming hole where a trout sped by. I walked on the dry stones, crunching beneath my feet and then, plunged back into the water first at my ankles and then lapping up against my thighs and thought about last night’s late night talk with my friends about prayer.

I admit to praying only when in panic mode and so, rarely do these days.  For a start, I am not sure, perhaps what it is I am doing when I pray, since I have no real faith in a God (the Catholic training has me capitalizing still) However, I do have a sense, a feeling – that something greater than myself exists – to me, that certainly doesn’t seem like a stretch. In a pinch, that’s the direction I send out my plea.  But prayer as something more: as contemplation – meditation does appeal to me as a pause in life to remember that which is important. And that brings me back to the river…

Today, like yesterday, there came a time when I need to decide to turn back. The road runs parallel to the river bed and I knew I could scramble up a slight hill and through some brush and walk easily back to the house – but I didn’t, loving the strain of keeping my balance, the feeling of being one with all of this beauty, this feeling of meditation, perhaps, even of prayer.

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