Landing on the Moon

Kayaking on the Long Island Sound is great thinking time.  Yesterday, between dreaming about what to make for dinner and paddling into the waves, I decided it is time to write a new book.  Time to step away from the manuscript I’m currently flogging and start another story.  Today, I opened up a blank document (it’s there still, behind this screen) and panicked. How did I ever write all those pages in the first place? I stared at that page waiting for words, then quickly retreated here to this less daunting space.

I did it once, and I will do it again — but at least for now, the emptiness of the screen reflects my mind. Of course I know that what I write now will not be what I end up with. I’ll be editing, revising, trashing and revising again. It is NOT like landing on the moon. The beauty of writing is that I won’t be stuck with “one small step…” — it can be a leap, I just have to take it…

 

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.

Pausing for Death

Yesterday, I caught up with a friend. We gabbed outside her workplace on a busy city street when she stopped mid-story and looking out past me, said, “Bless that person and their family.” A procession of cars moved at the same slow speed, yellow “Funeral” cards on each dashboard. Her eyes filled with tears, the grief of her father’s death only a month ago, still raw.

We watched the motorcade of grievers pass. When an impatient driver scooted across, momentarily breaking the flow, she said, “Now I hate that. You know, in Alabama, even on the highway, everyone stops and waits, even traffic on the other side of the road. That’s just what is done there.”

I’ve been thinking about that image: everyone stopped. Waiting in their cars, people might fiddle with their radio, maybe make a call or, say a prayer and meditate on this passing life.  I think Alabama does it right. A beautiful break in the day-to-day if we are lucky enough not to be in the procession but still hit ‘pause’ for the moments or minutes it takes for a family to follow the body of their loved one to the cemetery and reflect on our own mortality. Just because, as my friend said, that is what one does.  To respectfully pay attention and simply to breathe deeply because we can.

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.

Floating on the Sound

Floating on the Long Island Sound, the sweltering temperature drops by degrees as the breezes blow unimpeded across the water. Our blood pressure also lowers, as we shove off from shore leaving the hubbub of our small city to fade off as we paddle out towards the Norwalk islands.

Although, it’s still plenty busy out there.

Yesterday, there must have been a convention of dragonflies, so many hovered helicopter-like over the reeds.  An osprey floated so high above the water, I wondered how he could see his prey? Or perhaps like us, he was relaxing, letting himself be buffeted by the currents with no intentions whatsoever.  There were plenty of seagulls of course and yesterday, the more entertaining terns who dive down with a splash at the water to catch their fish. Swallows wove through the sky after insects only they could see.

Later, as we rounded one of the islands to a protected cove, we drifted close to white egrets, elegant creatures until they open their beaks with a strange, guttural grumble. Cormorants were out in force.  Peculiar birds, they sit together in a team on the rocks staring off into the distance, some with their wings spread open like a crucifixion before diving off under the water. On a little beach tucked beside a salt marsh, a swarm of sandpipers were invisible until one or two made an odd dash in pursuit of a nibble or took off into the sky, with a few more following in a frenetic flash.

I’ll bring a camera out today and try and capture one or two of these players and download pictures later.

Vacation’s Over

I like my job at the bookstore. People envy my position and it is enviable. But 13 days of vacation have been heaven and I wish I could continue to live like this. Time away in the Catskills doing whatever the hell I wanted (writing for 8 hours a day) was of course, delicious, but so were my days at home. Usually I started with some time with the garden, watering, pulling weeds, picking lettuce and the odd red cherry tomato. Many cups of tea were made between writing or reading on the front porch.  Chores were a pleasure – lots of time to hang the laundry (yes, I do that). Everything – leisurely.  

Being home when Molly comes home from camp, being there to feed and water her, even to drive her where she wanted to go, was sweet. Even she said so. And Tetley of course, loves having me around 24/7 — and what handsome company for me, don’t you think?  Other than going to the store to buy provisions, I barely ventured away from this almost quarter-acre corner.  Happy to putter, read, write, cook, garden, write and read some more between the front porch, the back deck, the table by the window, the couch and these past sweltering days, the air conditioned bedroom. Maybe a pause to wash the kitchen floor or at least some dishes.  The other day we kayaked, going just as far as a sandbar about half a mile from shore. We jumped out of the boat and floated in the gentle waves of the incoming tide, listening to the sea grass, as a tern swept back and forth and back again, finally dive-bombing the water with a little splash.

Farewell vacation.

The Patient

Perhaps it was the thunderstorm earlier this week that delivered the scorching temperature, now wilting us on the East Coast. Lightning strikes hit so close, a friend ended up in the hospital – and what are the odds? (he’s fine now) The morning after, inspecting the raised bed vegetable garden, I found my glorious heirloom tomato plant almost snapped in two. But wait —  I said, almost. 

I ran inside and rifled through drawers, boxes and bins for tape.  Carefully, I lifted the leafy stalks, heavy with little tomatoes and flowers. Holding the pieces together with one hand, I wrapped the black tape electrical tape around both stalk and stake with the other. Then I watered it.  24 hours later, there was still no wilt and the little yellow flowers were still intact.

I mean, what do they graft plants with? It’s got to be some kind of tape, right? But I wasn’t crazy about the electrical tape and presumed my favorite herb and garden center would have tape. Plant band-aids?   I told my tale to the two women at Gilberties, and they nodded sympathetically, obviously expecting I’d lost the tomato plant. But no! I exclaimed, it seems to be doing just fine.

They did not have any special tape but one of them suggested getting surgical tape – the kind that breathes. So I did – and with chopsticks, built a split. See? I fed it and have been watering it extra. Okay, I talk to it too. Whatever, it all seems to have worked.

This is my favorite plant now — and of course, rich in metaphors for me. It may yet die, but if it makes it, these tomatoes will be the most delicious of all.

A Missed Meal, Shared

An earlier departure than I had originally planned meant missing the last two Studio 70 Sister dinners.  But Diane kindly sent me the menu and documentation:

“We tried to get rid of the contents of the fridge without complete success. We had zucchini, onion, garlic and provolone fritatta with wilted Kale sauteed with onions and turnip on the side finished off with a brioche roll and Campari spritzer to drink.” Sorry the photo isn’t bigger, but the over-all color scheme is so delightful I had to include it.  The previous night Diane (this year’s star chef) made incredible beet burgers on a homemade brioche bun.  (featured in the photo above) Anyone walking by the house might have heard us groaning and moaning with pleasure as we sunk our teeth into the juicy-red deliciousness, and imagined us up to something else. Just another dinner in Phoenicia.  Here’s the recipe although the burgers featured in their picture look like sliders compared to the gigantic ones Diane made.

New recipes are just one of things that we all leave with each summer.  Garden wisdom, gossip, laughter, serenity — inspiration! (this is a drawing by Laura of Diane and me on the porch)But our amazing shared meals illustrate best how I feel after time together in the great stone house by the noisy, rocky river: NOURISHED.

Another Day – Catskills Retreat

I know there is a full moon tonight but I search the horizon from my bedroom window to no avail.  There are more trees than sky around here. Full moon, full day of writing. This evening, I took a break to make dinner.  A pleasure to concoct surrounded by these friends, I improvised a meal of whole wheat pasta with a medley of vegetables — onions, an abundance of smashed garlic, mushrooms, grated carrot, zucchini, summer squash with olive oil, topped with a poached egg, fresh basil and parmesan. It is not as gorgeous to look at as to taste, but here it is.Smooshed up, the poached egg blends together scrumptiously with the vegetables and pasta.

I wrote outside under an apple tree this morning. A few feet away but out of sight, Laura had set up her pastels in the flower garden of hollyhocks and bee balm. On the porch, Diane was also drawing. Later, someone played the piano.

There is a dreamlike quality to these days — immersed in our art, our dreams, our books, the river. We ask each other what day it is and exclaim at how quickly time is passing. We speak with longing and love about our loved ones at home but are absorbed in these precious moments to just – be. We read each other well, knowing when to engage or leave each other alone. We recognize in each other, the thrall of inspiration.

By evening, we are ready to connect, so gather around the kitchen. Someone slices, simmers and serves delicious dinner. Somehow, easily – the dinners get made, the dishes washed, the lights go out, the day ends. We disappear to our rooms for sleep to the constant river sounds, anticipating another day to do — whatever we want.

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