News of the World

Disturbing world events cloud the bright spring light. Beyond sending money to the Red Cross and thoughts to affected friends, I feel powerless. Worried about Japan and now Libya and anxious for word on the 4 missing New York Times journalists, I check the news almost obsessively. In recent years, my dose has been kept to a minimum fix of BBC, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert – but these days I find myself switching wildly between the network news stations. Tricky how commercials are timed to run simultaneously – the mute button the only way to avoid the advertising bombardment.

When I lived in Croatia and Bosnia, CNN and the British, Sky News were the only available international new sources.   I appreciate the 24 hour-ness of CNN – but what’s with the scary, music constantly playing as the news people talk? And the bizarre touch-boards of maps and charts? Colbert and Stewart have spoofed this high-tech nonsense, so now, when John King enlarges, shrink, circles and stars, images of the Japanese nuclear plants, it seems comical – although the subject is anything but funny. It’s too much – the constant sound effects and nerve wracking music amping us up to “Be afraid! Be very, very afraid!”, not so subliminally. Flipping over to BBC, a perfectly nice and normal woman with a too-shiny purple shirt (obviously, and refreshingly they seem to have no wardrobe people) sits at her desk and delivers the news, shifting, without fanfare, to field correspondents. No charts, no holograms. Same thing with the PBS stations – while sometimes soporific, they just present straightforward news. Everything is scary enough these day, we don’t need these guys yelling at us.

I feel a little guilty looking away from it all and feeling pleasure at the shift of the seasons out of winter. But there is so much to be done in the garden and family and friends need attention – and it is okay to feel the joy in this. Didn’t I learn that already? In any case, I need to catch up on things. Like clearing last year’s leaves, planning this year’s garden. And yesterday, I was reminded about — forgive me for being so mundane — clothing.

Although only March 18, yesterday turned into a weird, way-too-warm, too-early day. Dressing for work in the dark morning hours, I pulled on wooly socks, corduroys and a sweater. By the time I left the bookstore in the afternoon, everyone was in shorts and flip-flops. How did they make the switch from winter fleeces to summer frocks so quickly? My plastic bins of summer clothes are buried in the basement and the shifting-of-the-clothes is a major weekend undertaking.  Anyway, although I can see from my window, a patch of  daffodils in bloom, I am cautious and will not bury my sweaters just yet.

Japan

I cannot stop looking at the apocalyptic earthquake-tsunami images out of Japan. Cars on houses, buildings being swept away, boats hammering against bridges. Muddy survivors clutching buckets of belongings or worse, nothing at all – losses palpable. The luckier ones, hold tight to children, friends, neighbors. Heartbreaking. I cannot turn away. And now, the horrible specter of nuclear disaster. Terrifying.

I know these people – while I have never been to this corner of Japan – I recognize faces and those houses smashed under salty debris are familiar to me. None of my friends are there – and while relieved to be spared the pain of personal loss, I mourn for this place, once my home.

Creativity Manifest

For years I considered myself a visual artist. I have a basement full of work as evidence. Paintings at least, are easier to store than sculptures. I have two very large wood pieces I carved in Japan, propped up in our tiny living room. They are superb dust collectors. I remember chiseling away at them for hours outside my little house in Kyoto. The wood is eucalyptus and carving released potent oils into the air.  My sinuses were always clear.

Believe me, I am even less delusional about my talent as an artist than as a writer, but I do have some pieces I like living with — like those big, old chunks of wood. But I don’t miss the stuff necessary to paint or sculpt or the ‘stuff’ (now art?) you are left with when you are done. What to do with it all? When my artist friends and I go to the Catskills for our week of retreat, it takes them many trips to unload the boxes of supplies and un-wieldly pads of paper and canvas.  I get to prance upstairs with my laptop. Okay… and bags of books I think I’ll read and don’t. The process of writing is so streamlined compared to the visual arts. And in the end, finding and settling into the place where creating comes from, and staying there for as long as possible, (ah, those summer retreats!) feels the same bliss to me.

Well, almost. Sometimes, I miss the smells, the excitement and immediacy of making something. The physicality of ripping up paper for collages, the trance-like state of carving a piece of wood. The really gut feeling when something works – the incredible, physical burst of energy when I can’t stop working on the thing. It comes from a different place — a place I haven’t been to in a long time.

I made a stab at getting back to work when M was about 5 or so. The painting in this photo is one of those. I have no memory of the title of the piece or where it is now.  I suspect it is buried with whatever paints I still have left. I really don’t like it, so if it is in the basement, it’s staying there. I see on that canvas and in my eyes, a miserable heart being smothered. I remember standing in that bank where I hung my paintings in the hope I’d sell something — a finger in the dyke of financial, spiritual and emotional chaos of living with an addict.

Maybe this summer, I’ll pack a small box of supplies and re-visit this visual-art territory again just to see what comes out. I wonder – will my happier state translate into a better painting?

Dahlias

I’m a sucker for email seed and plant offers.  Dahlias — that’s what I bought this morning. What a deal! Apparently critters don’t like them. The problem I foresee is that you are supposed to dig them up at the end of the season and store them.  That’s a stretch for me — especially because by the time autumn comes around, my gardening energy is on the wane and I’m more likely to catch the last days of kayaking than to remember to dig up bulbs. But maybe this year will be different — and in any case, they were on sale.

Dahlia’s are a big deal in Japan. I remember pedaling my bicycle through the narrowest of old streets in Kyoto – and squeaking my brakes (all bicycle brakes seem to squeak in Japan — better than a bell?) stopping to marvel at blossoms the size of plates growing in pots lined up outside a rickety house. Oftentimes, the usually-ancient gardener would be out tending their prize worthy plants.  This year, I will try these myself – filling my own boxes to tend on one of the decks Rob attached to the house over recent years.

It’s almost March — enough snow has melted so I can see the snowdrops popping up down the street and warm enough this morning that I could smell the earth and I’m thinking garden again.

Television

I have a quick fix for not having enough time to write or read: do not turn on the television.  We’re not bad in my house – we will go days without watching TV and on Sundays, it’s banned until after 5 PM. The rest of the week, we rarely turn it on before 7:00 and then, it’s me who’s the culprit, switching on the BBC to follow the latest international calamity. We have effectively bullied M into not watching much boob-tube when we’re home and if she does, it’s set so low, our deaf ears can barely hear it anyway. And canned laughter is forbidden. That works because she mostly watches CSI and medical mystery stuff. She recently pointed out that our favorite programs, John Stewart and Stephen Colbert have the same laughter tracks.  No, it’s a live audience, I pointed out.  But it sounds the same, she retorts. And it does. But the difference is, we’re laughing too, so it’s not irritating to us.  A benefit of the parental role is hypocrisy like this.

Anyway, once the idiot box is on, it’s hard to turn off. Let’s see what Lidia’s cooking tonight, then Jacques Pepin. Because we can record shows, we feel like we are efficient in our viewing – fast-forwarding through commercials cuts down on at least a third of the time.  True-confessions: we are American Idol fans. Embarrassing, I know.  I’m also addicted to whatever Masterpiece Theater show is out there, although I usually watch that alone and I’m way backed up. The Office is a family favorite and a new favorite is Parks and Rec.  That’s about it — but there you have it — the evening is shot, swallowed up by TV-land.

And the worst part is, television is completely soporific for me and I rarely stay awake beyond 9:00 PM. I can if I am reading or writing, but on the couch, in front of the television I just conk out. If Rob is there beside me and holding my feet as he sweetly does, I sleep to The Simpsons or Nova soundtracks (his favorites) until I can force open my eyes just wide enough to stumble upstairs. This image of myself reminds me of my father when I was growing up — always falling asleep on the floor in front of some mystery series or Columbo.  “Why don’t you go to bed, Dad?” we’d urge. Probably because we wanted to change the channel.  He’d rarely leave, instead rallying for a few more minutes after our harangue before his head would wobble down to the pillow, us kids cracking up at his snores.

Return of the Robins

Robin Red-breasts flitted about on the branches as Tetley and I walked along the wooded stretch this morning and although we are still in a deep-freeze, it feels like we’ve turned a corner. The light lingers longer each day and I turn my face up in grateful ecstasy towards the heat of the sun. Yes, mountains of filthy snow will likely linger for months, but there are swathes of ground visible — packed, frozen earth I can imagine soon turning to mud. Oh, I know it will be close to 2 months before spring really arrives, but these small harbingers and a week without snow have lifted my spirits – believing now, that there are lighter, warmer days not far ahead ahead.

I aspire to live in the present, to remain alert to the moment with all my senses, my heart and mind.  Buddhists, my sculpture teacher – Mike Skop and common sense have all steered me towards this as a core spiritual and creative practice. But what about when life really sucks? I think of my friend simultaneously battling cancer and a broken heart and all I want to do is fast forward her out of her shitty present to brighter days I feel sure are ahead for her. I don’t want her to have to ‘be here now’ – but she is and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. The pain of our loved ones is awful to watch.  As always, I turn to books and remember that during some of my darkest days When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron , (find a beautiful excerpt by clicking here) was like my survival manual.  Reading this piece again, I am reminded to embrace the moment, as dark and cold as it may be — but I still welcome the Robins back to the neighborhood and wish for spring.

Another Winter Day

I hesitate to write about the grueling winter, but it may be the only way forward for me, out of the paralysis I feel waking to leaden skies and polar temperatures. Every day of relentless cold, ice, snow – is depressing to the point of being debilitating, and I am curling farther into myself, physically, mentally and spiritually.  I feel pinched – as if I am collapsing into my chest.  I force myself to breathe deeply, shoulders back, stretch. Nothing to be done but carry on, feed the birds, cook, read and mark the days inching towards spring. February, at least, is a short month and the seed catalogues arrive almost daily.

The plows have piled more than 5 feet of snow on top of my strawberry plants – it’s hard to imagine they will survive – but they will and so will the purple sage and all the spring bulbs that bravely push through the last of the frosts. I try and always have a hyacinth or bunch of daffodils on the table as a fragrant reminder for what’s just around the corner. Really. And just for fun, I will inevitably over-order seeds to sow directly in only a few more months and maybe pre-order some heirloom tomato plant collections. The best seed deals and choices I’ve found are Pinetree Seeds of Vermont and Select Seeds from Connecticut.  While sometimes I am enticed by catalogues from Wisconsin or Oregon, it just seems to make sense to get seeds for my Connecticut garden from New England.

I cook.  A recent favorite is a recipe on one of my favorite food blogs, The Wednesday Chef: Zuni Cafe’s Chard and Onion Panade. It’s comfort food extraordinaire. I erred on the side of lots of stock but would use less next time in the hopes that the consistency wouldn’t be quite so soupy. And maybe add a little wine?  Definitely more greens rather than less.  Yum.

Also whipping through books.  David Mitchell’s The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, while exquisite reading was at first a little slow for me but is now a page turner and I’ll certainly finish this weekend. After reading last Sunday’s sobering review of memoirs in the New York Times Book Review, (“The Center of Attention: Taking stock of four new memoirs – and of the motives for adding to an already crowded genre.”) I read the title reviewer Neil Genzlinger did not pan: An Exclusive Love by Johanna Adorjan and agree with him. It’s beautiful. The author’s poignant exploration of her grandparents joint suicide is like watching a riveting Bergman film — vividly drawn scenes and characters. No surprise the author has written for theater. I was drawn to this, of course, because of the suicide – but while the suicide is certainly a theme driving the story and the damage-done apparent in the author being haunted enough to pursue her questions (it is the questions we survivors are left with), ultimately it is a beautiful love story. And we know the author/survivor, has found her peace.

Genzlinger writes at the end of his memoir reviews: “…what makes a good memoir – it’s not a regurgitation of ordinariness or ordeal, not a dart thrown desperately at a trendy topic, but a shared discovery. Maybe that’s a good rule of thumb: If you didn’t feel you were discovering something as you wrote your memoir, don’t publish it. Instead hit the delete key, and then go congratulate yourself for having lived a perfectly good, undistinguished life. There’s no shame in that.”  I’ve re-read this a few times over the past week – a challenge to myself.  I did not hit delete. It’s just a long, cold, winter – but spring is on the way.

Birds

The front yard flutters with birds.  A dozen sparrows rise from the hedge, swarming the suet cages.  A solitary chickadee is driven away. A male cardinal swoops in, lending a pizzaz of color to an otherwise sepia scene of snow, branches, sparrows. As if on cue, they all take off and the chickadee returns, followed by a tiny woodpecker and then, more chickadees – they must have sent the bravest one out first to recce the situation for them.  Yesterday a larger woodpecker showed up – magnificent pattern of black and white  on his body and a perfect stroke of red from the crown of his head down to his shoulders – as if an artist had brushed it on. Then, a dozen grackles surrounded the pecker and one of them faced off with the formidable beak of the woodpecker, bobbing his head threateningly. Out-numbered, the beautiful one took off.

We know, (we think) some birds from past seasons. Two summers ago, a cardinal nested in the rose bush growing against a window in our sunroom, hatching 4 eggs – undisturbed by the constant human and canine activity a pane of glass away. She seemed to be a single mother – nurturing, feeding  – alone.  When she left the nest, we peered through the window for a close-up of the bizarre looking hatchlings. One day, we were alarmed to see one, now feathered but still tiny, standing out on a thorny rose branch, unable to get back to the nest. Rob went out and gently put it back with its siblings. Later that afternoon, it was teetering again, now on an even farther branch and this time, he fell into the flowerbed below. Again, being sure to keep Tetley in, Rob retrieved the downy creature and returned it to its nest. Soon, with the mother rarely in sight, they all were taking the leap to what we were sure would be their death to predators or starvation. Really, the mother was never far away – we heard her chirps and caught glimpses of her in a distant tree – and soon, tiny cardinals flitted about the garden. A poignant speed lesson in child rearing.

We imagine them out there now, this little family, plucking seed from the feeders along with Woody, the downy woodpecker that on another summer day, (it helps to think of them during this brutally cold and snowy winter) took a wrong turn and became trapped in the sunroom. Again, Rob gently cupped his hand around the petrified creature and released ‘Woody’ (as he christened him) back to the sky. And yesterday Wren – who we always welcome back to one of the houses attached to trees and posts in the back, landed on the sill. She seemed to be sussing out whether or not to build a winter home behind some wood we’d left against the window.

Sometimes, a shadow falls across the snow (oh, so much snow!) and the birds clear-out as the neighborhood raptor swoops dramatically across the yard. We love seeing this majestic bird, although I hope he finds his meals elsewhere.

This quiet Saturday morning, I make another cup of tea and put my feet up on the steamy radiator. I have been here for more than an hour and will linger longer — look!  A nuthatch and two junkos arrive — and with a weird flash of green, one of the neighborhood parrots also joins the fray. At this moment, winter seems lovely.

Thoughts on Grief

Walking the dog this morning, the brightness of the rising sun reflecting on snow combined with the biting cold air, made my eyes water profusely. In case a neighbor was looking out the window, I wiped my face and yawned hoping to make it clear, mine were not tears of grief. Why was I concerned?

Most of us (an exception I think of is a certain political weeper) prefer to be private when it comes to crying. An empty room, the beach, a forest – where I can see no-one and no-one can see (or hear) me – are my preferred settings for out-right sobbing. Why do we usually want to hide — almost as if it is shameful or embarrassing — our grief? After all, little inspires compassion and generosity in others more than being witness to someone else’s suffering, so why do we usually prefer to be private in our sadness?

Retreating into solitude seems to be instinctive and I think it crucial we sit with, look at, delve into the dark recesses of mourning, but I also believe in the comfort found in meeting with others who share like experiences. I vividly recall, from many hours spent in survivor groups, finding at least temporarily, a sought-after peace from sharing the gamut of emotions, tears and laughter with a roomful of almost-strangers.  I am not really a ‘group person’, preferring to go it alone in most things, but I can vouch for the healing power of simply being with others who have shared experiences, who recognize and accept the reasons for our pain. Who have their own.  And of course, sooner or later, we all will.

But really – this morning, it was only the sun.

When We Win the Lottery

Sometimes Rob and I indulge ourselves in the fantasy of what we would do with our millions if we won the lottery.  Sometimes, we even buy tickets – a quick pick and one with a mix of birthdays.  Lump sum – we want our winnings in one full swoop.  We think we’d keep this sweet little house but make it a little less, little.  From the pointiest part of our roof, I think we’d be able to see the Long Island Sound and that’s where I’d like my writing room to be.  Something closer to the water would be nice too, so maybe we’d get one of those mysterious, abandoned looking places out on the islands we kayak around in the summer.

Both of us say, we wouldn’t quit our jobs right away, but certainly would take time off. Mind you, I like my job – how can I not? It’s books I am selling. Still, I’d like more of those 40 hours a week for my own.  And that’s where our lottery fantasy really takes off for me – when I think about being able to structure my day-to-day life without the demands of a job.  Weekends (especially long ones) and my summer get-away-with-the-Studio 70 Sisters, offer a glimpse of what I would do.

Read. First I’d make my way through the piles of New Yorker Magazines.  Somehow, I actually thought I’d get around to reading this weekly and subscribed. I try to bring it in the car and read while waiting for M or for the morning manager to come and open the store, when I get there early.  If I get hooked on a story, I’ll read it over lunch – but back issues folded open to some half-read page have been abandoned in the back seat, and another stack is on the living room table.  For the first day or so in the Catskills last summer, I lay in the porch hammock and read through months of issues. In between napping, I got through them all.  If I won the lottery, I’d renew my subscription and read it weekly, as intended.

I’d tackle the piles of books around here.  Rob built me another bookcase and yesterday, I began almost-organizing my shelves, filling them with books I mostly haven’t read yet. And besides those crowded shelves, I have a NOOK – and my cyber library continues to grow.  Right now I am reading The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet by David Mitchell and just the other day I bought Eden by Yael Hedaya – an Israeli author who was a guide at the United Nations at the same time as me.  Also on my virtual shelf are Franzen’s Freedom, The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson – and I have yet to read a page of them. I borrowed The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Stieg Larsson thinking I’d indulge myself this weekend, and it sits like a big box of chocolates I’m afraid to open because I won’t be able to stop.  Time.

I bought the NOOK because I felt like I better embrace the party-line and now, sincerely do.  Yesterday, reading the New York Times (only weekend delivery and still hours added for reading that!) there was a piece about an author, David Vann who’s first book, Legend of a Suicide piqued my interest, and I was able to immediately find it on my NOOK.  I used some self-control and so far, only downloaded a sample although I think I am hooked on Vann’s writing and will have to go all the way on this one.  All of this, from the comfort of my couch.  Of course, to some extent, this is an oft discussed issue – is this cannibalization for the bookstore? But that’s a question for another blog entry — I’m planning my lottery-won time here, after all.

Travel. Lots of trips — although we’d still be constrained by M’s school schedule — we’d travel to warmth in the winter.  Sharing places I have been to and loved with my love, and bringing M to the town in Italy where she was born. Bali, Japan, China. New places -Argentina, Brazil, Vietnam, Thailand, Egypt, Israel, anywhere – everywhere. We’d visit friends around the world: Helene and Paul in South Africa, Jenny in Tasmania.

Garden. I’d build a much better fence to deter the creatures from eating everything. Plant more flowers and some fruit trees.  And get bees – although for this, we won’t wait for the lottery.  We decided against chickens although our neighbor’s fresh eggs were addicting. Birds just never really appealed to me as pets — I don’t want to touch them and I don’t think we could get away with that if we had chickens. Maybe a goat or two…

I recently finished an advance reader copy of And I Shall Have Some Peace There, a memoir by Margaret Roach, who, without winning the lottery, managed to choose the life she wanted. Roach clocked in many years in a high-powered job working for Martha Stewart and walked away to live the life she really loved, gardening, writing, and just being in the Hudson Valley.  Roach does not sugar-coat her new life, honestly sharing the pitfalls and struggles as well as the joys, in this compelling and inspiring read about what to do with one’s time.  Roach reminds us that our time here is limited so: carpe diem.

Write. With my new room (my own!) at the top of the house and a view of the Long Island Sound, I could disappear at any time to write.  I’d probably still stick to my morning regime when it feels like my subconscious is still boss.

Volunteer. I’d up my donations and time to the organizations I already love working with like Fairfield County First Book and The Bridgeport School Volunteers Association.  And I’d send lots of money to MSF (Doctors Without Borders).

What I would do if (when?) we win the lottery, is what I do anyway – but I’d do it more. And that’s the best part of periodically indulging in this fantasy – discovering we are already living the life we want.  It’s not more things we want — just more time.

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