I do not have the clarity that religion offers, but in my own way, discover spiritual moments, although – never in a church. Easter Sunday, we work out in the garden. R is tying up branches both fallen in recent storms and trimmed by us. Wearing gloves against the thorns, I prune the rambling rose bush and pull the dead wood out of the hydrangea plants. There is a woody vine that since last summer has laid claim to a stone wall. I push my sheers beneath the dirt, snip out the roots, yank and cut. I know I did not go deep enough and suspect it will be back again within a few months when I get lazy and turn my attention to other parts of the garden. But for now, it is enough. Cleaning out the dead or undesirable branches and plants, clearing the way for new life. Filling my lungs with scented spring air I am grateful for the day. That feels like a prayer to me.
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The Importance of Lunch
The tiled walls of the PS 95 lunchroom magnified the roar of children’s voices. When the allotted eating time was up, we were herded out into the fenced-in tarmac. The schoolyard. Venturing beyond the chain link fence was forbidden. The yard held no swings, slides, benches – only three basketball hoops without nets and in the opposite corner, fading lines for stickball games. A ‘thonk, thonk’ of Spaldings against the school’s brick walls punctuated the chorus of yelling children. Swarms of kids chased each other across the yard while others in small groups or alone, sat along the perimeter of the fence, using their metal lunch boxes for seats. My friends and I hated recess and by 5th grade, our little group, too far away to go home for lunch, had schemed a daily escape.
Initially we ate in the laundry room of a nearby apartment building. Entering by the service door, we followed the sound of rushing water, down the labyrinthine hall to a steamy room with six washing machines and three dryers. We tossed our wooly coats on top of a humming dryer and climbed onto a machine or sat perched between laundry baskets on the lone bench. Girls were not allowed to wear pants to school, so we’d carefully tuck our hems around our knees while devouring our peanut butter or bologna sandwiches. There were three or four of us: usually Phyllis, Zeena, Denise and me. When weather permitted, we vied with the Yiddish-speaking seniors for benches in the stretch of green beside the reservoir. In fifth or sixth grade, Elise, a diminutive, strawberry blond with freckles like me, invited us to eat our brown bag lunches at her house.
She lived in one of the towering apartment buildings a block from school. On days when the wind blew fierce across the reservoir, the walk felt interminable as we chattered and laughed, clutching our coats tight. We followed our friend into the warmth of her lobby and took the elevator up to her apartment. No one was home at Elise’s house. Unlocking the door, she welcomed us into her quiet, sunny apartment, into the kitchen where we each had a chair at the table, like honored guests – no: like family. To all of us, it felt like home.
The school bus ride from my apartment building at the far end of Van Cortlandt park to this neighborhood by the reservoir was the full length of a city bus line – starting a block from my building and ending near PS 95 – too great a distance to travel to hang out regularly with my school friends. Weekends, after-school and summers were spent with my friends-by- circumstance, kids from my block and apartment building. My school friends and I were friends by choice. We were all smart kids who liked to make each other laugh. I recall no memory of meanness between us.
Observing my daughter’s friendships through recent years, I am reminded of the cruelty that girls (including myself – memories of shame) are capable of and realize how sweet our little lunchtime group was. And how generous Elise and her family were to let us descend upon their house each day.
I lost touch with these girls when I went off to a different junior high school and then moved out of state. Lacking the means of connectedness that our children have, my friends faded into memories that only now, over 40 years later, are coming back into focus. Although I am not usually one to knock on doors of the past, I did not hesitate to send Elise, our kind host, a message when I came across her profile on a PS 95 alumni page. There was a third name added to the name I knew, but I was sure it was my old friend. Her Facebook page indicates she is a fan of my favorite off-beat public radio station, of Van Cortlandt park and that her political bent is left. Chances are, if I met her today, I would still want her for my friend. I sent her a message and she answered within the day – excited to hear from me. A few exchanged messages – short summaries of where we live, ages of kids, and we agreed to get together – to try and bridge those 40 + years since sharing lunch together, in person. We’ll meet somewhere in between our suburban homes now far from the Bronx, to catch up on life. I will insist on buying lunch.
Over the Mountain
Relying on a GPS is not always a good idea as I found this week on my way back from a meeting in upstate New York. I had opted for the ‘avoid major highway’ option and found myself turning down dubious streets in Peekskill. Next I was driving up, up, up for miles (3) in what I knew was the wrong direction. I crept along on hairpin turns against walls of rock, rushes of water pouring down onto the road that twisted ahead into the clouds ahead of me. Mist rose Shining-like from the all-too-close edge of the road. How do people do this through the icy days of winter? Cars sped towards me and I knew whoever was behind me was cursing my little Subaru as I crawled along, terrified.
Finally, down, down, down on the other side, tapping my brake, the road opened up and I saw a river and a narrow bridge. Across the river felt like the only option to get me going south in the right direction. The GPS was more than willing to accommodate, directing me across the bridge, down the road and to the right smack into Bear Mountain State Park on 5:45 PM on a dreary, Tuesday night. Frightening still, but I was relieved to be on level ground again, the risk of hurtling off a cliff, gone.
The road led me into the woodsy park where I was happy to see a State Trooper’s car. I wanted to be going in the right direction home but, heart still beating, I hoped that would not entail going back over the mountain. No such luck. I was on the wrong side of the Hudson and the way back to where I needed to be was over the bridge and up, up, up – down, down, down. “Drive safely” he said. It wasn’t so bad the second time round – I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and sang Beatles songs at the top of my lungs. It felt familiar as if I knew this road. Still a challenge, but I could handle it.
An hour later, after a few more unintended visits to towns I could have missed (Ossining – home of Sing Sing prison), I got onto the major roads going in the right direction. I never felt so happy to crawl along I-95 in rush hour traffic.
Saving Daylight
Still trying to catch up from saving (losing?) that daylight hour and am slow to pull myself out of bed. The dark morning is hard but the extra evening light is worth it. Yesterday (Saturday), I worked for a few hours hosting the lovely author and chef Leticia Moreinos Schwartz with her new book The Brazilian Kitchen: 100 Classic and Contemporary Recipes for the Home Cook – a beautiful cookbook I had to buy myself after salivating over the photos and recipes like Red Pepper and Brazil Nut Pesto or Avocado Creme Brulee. Yum. And the little sweet treats she brought for customers to taste – Brigadeiros – were scrumptious. Food and good people – I was able to forget that it was a beautiful, first day of spring and I was inside. And there was plenty of time in the remaining afternoon and evening to work in the garden.
When I got home, we leveled a Rose O Sharon shrub hovering over the corner of my vegetable garden for too many years. I am loathe to cut down trees and shrubs where the birds might hang out. Not yesterday. Without sentiment, we brought it down, opening up that corner that has always become overgrown, blocking the sun from my tomato plants. What bugged me most about this shrub was the shoots that spring up all around it – a flower garden next to the garage, the corner behind that we have been trying with little success to claim from the weeds and determined raspberry shoots. Hundreds of little twigs that are Rose O Sharon offspring – they are poking out already, some tenaciously stuck in there, resisting my yanks. We worked for hours into the evening, the sky turning a deeper blue to dark with a sliver smile of moon up above. Ah, spring.
Spring
Daffodils poke their yellow heads out from under wooden steps added to the front porch last summer. I thought I moved all plants and bulbs before construction but obviously missed these guys. Amazing that hidden though they are, they manage to get what they need to still bloom gloriously. I’ll try and remember to crawl under there this autumn and move them to another spot.
So much damage was done by the crazy storm last week that the schools in my city never opened. Yesterday, as I drove my daughter to and fro, the streets were full of kids – their tiny t-shirts and shorts, flip flops – already retrieved from their summer clothes stash, walking in groups, filling the playgrounds, on bicycles, skateboards. Did so many kids always live here or am I just seeing them now because I have one? I pay more attention to children closest to my child’s age – so now the world seems full of high school freshman – other age groups fade into the background. I don’t always like what I see and remember being almost 15 and feel oh-so lucky (so far!) with my beautiful girl.
Crazy winds. We got off easy losing power for just over 24 hours. Driving around yesterday to survey the damage we took many detours because of downed trees and hanging wires. At home, we were cozy enough with candles and the fireplace – and the bonus of wonderful neighbor/friends still with power who shared their food, wine and couch with us.
It was an interesting reminder for me – the pleasure of simply flicking a switch to light up a room. In Croatia and Bosnia, there were months at a time during the war, when I had neither water nor electricity and I somehow, got (uncomfortably) used to it. And for a long, long time afterwards – a hot shower was pure bliss, boiling water on the stove – a joy and what luxury to have heat and electricity! That theme again: how sweet the light becomes because of darkness.
Pansies!
Garden centers are selling pansies. Out of all the flowers in the world, pansies are not particularly ‘lookers’. Their blooms are small, like silly little comic-faces and they get scraggly too fast (I know: you’re supposed to pinch them back) and they have no scent. Still, I will pick up a few plants and pop them into the window box outside my kitchen window, and even if it snows again, these brave blossoms will reassure me that spring is almost here.
March is always a teasing month. After some stunning, cloudless, warm days, yesterday and today are cold and rainy (but not snowing!) today with winds that keep the metal chimes left hanging on the porch since summer, furiously tinging away. Yesterday, the neighborhood hawk went swooping so low across the sky, I was able to see him shifting his red tail, catching the wind steering him to a a distant tree. I say ‘he’ because upon landing, he hopped onto the back of another hawk. Mating hawks in the neighborhood – exciting. Watch out squirrels!
Winter’s End
The last week of this short, cold and snowy month is here, and with it, welcome signs of spring. The sun’s pace seems to have slowed as it slips across the sky, lingering a little longer in warm patches throughout the house. The dog follows the light, curling into the heat and I try and make it up into the bedroom to read by the last glow, mellowing into reds and finally, blues of dusk-to-night. Garden catalogues are stacked and two cherry trees ordered. Yesterday, the snow mostly melted, we walked the yard, assessing what needs to be done. There will be at least another snow, or maybe more – but we are on the right side of winter – the final leg – so I can bear it. The branch tips are heavy with buds and the birds seem to be singing different songs and for a few hours each day, I forget about the cold night still ahead.
Enough Time
I lost my focus today and for a while, felt like I was wrestling with time – and we know who always wins that match. I woke early, went to the grocery store before the crowds descended, and then planned to go to a kickboxing class at the gym. But by the time I got home to drop the groceries and change, it was only 20 minutes until the class began. While tying my second sneaker, I decided rather than rush like mad, I would not go. I was disappointed and felt like I just don’t have enough time. I have so much I have to do and so much else I want to do, and like most Americans, two days off to do it in. Good thing I like my job – and of course the theme these days is – ‘you’re lucky to have one’ and I absolutely feel that – but also dream about having more of that 40 hours a week to myself.
But here I am bitching about not enough time – and yet, who knows how many years, months, moments we have anyway? When it comes down to it – all I really have is time so why am I feeling sorry for myself? What I can do, is a better job of paying attention to each minute. Mindfully wash those dishes, fold those clothes and make that soup or just screw the housecleaning, hug my kid, climb back into bed with my man and remember how lucky I really am.
Oh – a postscript: that exercise class I was trying to rush off to started at 7:30 so I would have missed it anyway.
Sleep, perchance to… sleep? And a rambling about books.
Sometimes I wake in the dark, early hours wanting to write about something. Go on, get up and write, I urge myself. The bed is so warm and the air so frigid, I never do. In the light of morning, I have no recollection of what inspired me in the dark. Not surprising really, since these days, I never remember so much as a flash of a dream. Nights are delicious, nourishing voids.
Not that I don’t miss crazy escapades of the remembered subconscious, waking with a sense of having had adventures -but only a little. In years past, I suffered so many sleepless nights worrying, that I savour this gift of solid sleep, these nights, slumped on the couch by 9:00 PM.
Most nights, I try and read before conking out completely, curled up under the quilt – what luxury. The stacks of books-to-be-read continue to grow into teetering towers around the house. Advanced Readers Copies picked up from work are on every table and stacked on shelves of already full bookcases. Currently, I am hooked on The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson – a best seller that many friends and readers I share tastes with, have raved about. I am half-way through and while crime thrillers are not my usual reading taste, and the violence makes me wince, I know I’ll need to read his next one too. Not exactly bedtime reading but I can’t put it down. And still, no dreams (or nightmares!).
Borrowed from the store (a great benefit of my job) is Anticancer: A New Way of Life by David Servan-Schreiber, MD, PhD – a refreshingly, rare from an MD, holistic take on proactively dealing with this sucky disease. War of the cells and what we can do to stack the odds in our favor. Things we know, but I for one, need reminding of – like layoff the white stuff – sugar, flour. Exercise. And drink red wine! Being positive and having friends – recently this attitude has taken a beating (by Barbara Ehrenreich of Nickled and Dimed fame for example)but I know what kind of person I prefer to be around and unless you’re really funny in your bleakness, I’ll choose the positive attitude any day. Back to this book -it is interesting because the author is in this battle himself, and has survived past ‘the odds’ – something he poignantly addresses. This is the book I dip into between driving my teenager to and fro.
I even checked a book out of the library the other day – Pretty Birds a novel by NPR’s weekend edition, Scott Simon published in 2005, is my downstairs book. I don’t know how I missed reading this since it is about Sarajevo during the war and I compulsively read anything on that time and place – whether fiction or non-fiction. The first few chapters of my memoir are set in Bosnia during the war so I can’t help reading other people’s work with a comparative eye. Of course, my story is more about the war of addiction and Sarajevo is the fitting (and true backdrop) for launching my story. I’ve only read a chapter but it’s already compelling.
Recent temperatures have been arctic and I long for spring – but I realize that when it comes, my reading time will shrink with the demand and draw of the garden and sun. Maybe winter is not so terrible after all.