Paradise (Really)

My writing muscles are very out of shape but the rest of me feels great after my recent week at Sivananda Ashram Yoga Retreat in the Bahamas. Other than notes in my journal, I’ve never written about my trips here. Maybe I’m worried writing about it might mess with the alchemy of this magical place. Silly, I know. My intention is not to gate-keep. I love for good people to know about destinations I love in case they might too. See what you think…

An ocean of so many shades of greens and blues, palm trees and a taste of warmth in winter – who wouldn’t want to return again and again? I’m not talking about a fancy Caribbean hotel with cocktails by the pool. At this place, I sleep in a tent, wake to the gong of a bell at 5:30 AM, share a bathroom with strangers, line up with a tray for vegetarian meals and often help with the dishes. I know that doesn’t sound fun to many of you but this remains one of the best vacations I have ever had. Rejuvenating, centering, inspiring.

Last week I returned from my 4th visit in 33 years. It took a search through decades of journals but I found my entries from the first two times I went – in 1991 and 1992 just before going to my posting in Bosnia. After a lifetime (and one child!) I returned in 2018 to the same yoga ashram. Each time, I was loathe to leave and the internal peace I found there lingered for weeks, even in war-time Bosnia.

This 4th visit, I worried the spell might be broken that something would go wrong. Nope – it was amazing. I returned feeling centered, refreshed and rejuvenated. The routine there has not changed in the years since I first visited. Wake early (yes – gong at 5:30) to join other sleepy-heads in the temple for silent meditation and then chanting. The chanting initially feels awkward but then, what feels like muscle memory kicks in and I raise my voice with the rest of the group. It’s a kind of sing-song repetition of Sanskrit words I don’t know the meaning of but it feels like a praise of life and awakening. There are words available for those who want to follow but I found it easier to close my eyes and fumble my way along in repetition. After a few days of morning and evening Satsangs, the chants come easier. I think not understanding the ancient words actually makes it easier for me to join in. Maybe if church were still in Latin, I would find comfort in prayer? I am moved by the joy in the music the tabla beating like a heart and the harmonium like a human wailing voice, not quite as ominous as the huge church organs of my childhood.

The first yoga class of the day begins at 8. I am no expert and cannot twist myself into an inverted pretzel but yoga has long been a constant in my life and often, a conduit of spiritual connection with meditation and breath-work. I went mostly to beginner’s classes held on the bay rather than ocean-side of the island. I was glad for the slowness, happy to embrace beginners mind and poses. A set of movements not changed since forever, are generously punctuated by Savasana – corpse position with time for rest and meditation. Even the racket from the cruise ship’s docked in the bay loudly broadcasting announcements, failed to wreck my peace as I lay on the wooden platform, birds singing and breezes rustling the exotic leaves around us.

I arrived on this trip feeling discombobulated and bone tired, wondering if I’d ever quiet the chatter in my head. It took a day of the Ashram’s daily routine to feel back to myself. Yoga is twice a day – at 8 and again at 4. The teachers vary and while we had our favorites, all were wonderful and brought something different to the class. I say ‘we’ because on these last two trips, I went with my friends Helene and her dear husband, Paul. Helene and I have been pals since being tour guides at the UN and remains one of my favorite people in the world. Connecting again with my friends – who I see way to infrequently, and sharing this leisurely time with them, was a gift. Everyday, we made more friends from other states and countries. My phone is full of new bright and thoughtful people discovered over good meals and shared spirit.

After yoga, we joined the line for meals, meeting more vacationers like ourselves, earnest yogis doing teacher’s training or working as Kharma yogis – like the volunteers who cooked and dished out each glorious meal. The food is always incredible across 30 plus years. I think the magic ingredient must be an abundance of love stirred into creative dishes. Always a soup, different vegetable dishes, a huge helping of fresh salad with interesting dressings, scrumptious fruit and herb tea. (I snuck some PGTips tea bags in to avoid caffeine withdrawal!)

After brunch, time is free for napping, beach lounging, walking, reading, lolling about in a hammock or swimming in the pristine Caribbean water. I did a little of each. Helene and I and sometimes Paul or another new friend or two, walked barefoot down the mile or so stretch of incredibly soft and mostly empty beach. The big (ugly – I think) Atlantis Resort is down at the point and the usual lounge chairs, kiddies and fruity drink scene gathers in front. Otherwise, the Ashram is the only place along that bit of beach so there are long stretches of empty sand. While Atlantis wasn’t there back in the 90s, Club Med was right next door to where my tent was set up and every night I regularly went to sleep to the beat of dance music and drunken revelry. At least now, I heard only the sound of waves.

The routine, the structure, the community and obviously, the beautiful setting – suit me. And I know I’m not alone. I’ve yet to meet anyone – either coming or going – that didn’t hate to leave. A spiritual vibe in the purest sense – that’s welcoming and without judgement, permeates this tiny plot of land in the world of resorts. There’s no one checking on you (even the yoga classes are pretty hands-off) or taking attendance. I rarely thought about work or what I need to do at home. Being present becomes effortless as during yoga and in meditation we are reminded about breath. It’s all so simple. A quick walk down to the waves in the dark or along a teeny jungle path, voices chanting through the palms, the smell of salt water and a warm, humid breeze in March – tonic for the soul and spirit. I’m trying to stretch the memory and peace of this time for as long as possible. And plan for visit number 5. I know it will be wonderful.

If this sounds appealing, go!

BiCoastal Beach Walks and a New Year

While not a fan of the rushing and crazy expectations of the holiday season, I have long embraced January 1st as a kind of goal post for new beginnings. Reflection and letting go, dreaming and aspirational planning – I like all that. If nothing else it is an exercise of hope even as the world feels like it’s falling apart. We get to imagine and try to commit to a future that is better than ever.

Birds of Paradise!

Last year was a happy one for me – largely because my kid is happy and because we are both healthy. And I’ve gotten better at living in the present. I’ll try and keep that going in 2024. Of course, there’s some planning involved in life especially when it comes to trips and I took two last year. After hunkering down during COVID, it was nice to get out again. The adventure of Greece and Italy this summer was incredible and I just got back from California where I spent the Christmas with Molly.

At the Getty Museum

It was a perfect shake-up of how we usually celebrate and a nice lead up to what I’m imagining for 2024. While I enjoy the wood stove and cozy home traditions of our holidays in Connecticut, not getting a tree nor going overboard on presents was liberating. My time in LA was spent marveling at exotic flowers in bloom, smelling all the roses on long walks with only a sweatshirt for warmth. Hummingbirds seem to be everywhere and palm fronds rather than brown leaves litter the sidewalks. Writing this back in grey Connecticut, the memory of the weather and landscape and time with Molly is like a dream.

Rufus isn’t crazy about the waves.

Less than a week ago, I tramped across the very long stretch of beach to the waves of the Pacific Ocean pulled off my shoes and wet my feet in the waves. That vast ocean is daunting and mysterious, exciting and terrifying. Thinking about Japan on the other side of all that water gave me comfort and a pang of longing to see friends and corners there that I adore. Maybe that will be in the cards again soon.

Brant Geese wintering in Connecticut

Since returning home to Connecticut, I’m back to walking on the short rocky beaches of the Long Island Sound – a tame Atlantic tidal estuary. Better for bird watching. A huge flock of Brant geese have been hanging about and today there were a few Long-tailed ducks splashing too far for my phone camera to capture.

So what is next? This is the year I get healthcare without working so my plan is to step off the hamster wheel. I’ll figure out the nuts and bolts of surviving and thriving as an oldster. This almost 2 week break I’ve just had over the holidays has been a great taste of what it is to have time. I am ready. For 27 years I have been a good soldier for the same company. Bless them. It’s been good, providing support and stability while I raised my beautiful girl. But I want to find out who I am again without a job claiming my time. More on that as I get nearer to the cliff edge.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep my toes in the water and an eye out for birds. What are you dreaming about? A happy and healthy New Year to you!

Clearing Out

Maintaining and fixing old things is sometimes daunting. Cars, appliances, hearts not to mention minds. Today I’m referring to my house built in 1938. The Queen of Denial, I am expert at ignoring problems. I’ve lived for years with knobs that came off when you tried to open the door (the front door to boot – and we lived with it that way for years!) a leaking shower head, a broken porch step. You get the idea. I call these quirks so they seem charming.

I try and tackle most things on my own. Recently that meant cleaning my gutters including digging up, clearing out and putting back together two buried downspouts. But most plumbing and all electricity issues, are beyond me. When these things become big problems, I reluctantly call a professional.

Does doing that scare you? It terrifies me, imagining the cost – thus my avoidance. For years, my basement has periodically flooded usually after doing laundry. For a long time this was temporarily solved by getting my waste-water pipe snaked every year or so. I have a nice guy who charged me a reasonable amount to clear out the roots that regularly moved into my old cast iron pipes. I figured this was just something to live with because of all my beautiful trees. Occasionally I’d buy that expensive root killing powder and flush it down the toilet but now I have a commode (replaced by my daughter with me assisting) that doesn’t use as much water and I didn’t like the idea of all those matter-eating chemicals lingering in my house pipes.

About a month ago I had to call back my snake-guy after he’d been here only months before. He suggested that the time had come to figure out what the big issue was. Fixing it was beyond the capability of his machine.

And thus began my night terrors and house-anxiety. How big, how expensive would this problem be? Was there a broken pipe somewhere under my lawn or worse, would it require digging up the city road, surely costing me the value of my house to fix? I started waking at 3 in the morning to torture myself, imagining scenarios about all sorts of catastrophes. What was I thinking to imagine I can stay in this old house on my own? Etc, etc. What-ifs ran through my head until the sky turned pink with sunrise.

The problem has been fixed, could have been much worse and was solved for a very fair price and worth every penny. I do have a little PTSD so when I do a load of laundry or take a long shower I go down to the basement to check all is dry. It will take time to realize that in fact, the pipes are clear and waste moves out and far away through the city sewers.

The worst part was, as it almost always is, the not-knowing. I can concoct some terrible demons. And I did. I stressed for weeks. So I now embrace the metaphor and visualize my clean pipes taking away ALL the physical and psychic accumulation – the WASTE I’m guilty of hanging onto for too long. That includes worry and fear about so much old stuff. It’ll be okay and so will I, vintage and all!

Off the Couch

I don’t mind walking when it rains as long as it’s not torrential. The other day in a soft rain, protected only by my hooded jacket, I decided to walk along the river to the farmers market on the green. My desire was to vegetate at home doing a lot of nothing on the couch, but I forced myself to go out.

After following the river past the condos where the ducks hang out waiting for stale bread to be tossed from balconies, I dashed across the street to the secret path that climbs up behind the church in front of which, the market is held on Saturdays. The path opens out onto the parking lot next to the place where Molly spent a year in daycare. Most of the time when I pass this way, long-ago memories don’t register but this day I remember a time that Neil never picked Molly up so I was called at work to rush over and get her. In the early winter darkness, her teachers stood next to their cars right here, waiting with little Molly. They were kinder than I might have been at the inconvenience.

Another time I remember joining the parade of toddlers crossing this lot to the senior home to trick or treat and sing a song. Molly as a princess, wore a favorite blond wig of curls over her still barely-grown, short brown hair and a too-long Disney dress, now dirty at the hem. Perhaps because there were no grandparents in her life, the sight of all the old folks in wheelchairs, some with obvious dementia, completely freaked her out and she looked up towards me as if to rescue her from where she sat on the floor with the little group of costumed toddlers. Her face was crumpled in tears. Always an empathetic soul, maybe the scene felt too sad, as it did for me. The sweet babies in the middle of all these decades of life was a stark snapshot, the extreme passage of time, too much.

The path I walked isn’t really secret, it just feels that way because I never see anyone else. It’s a short stretch of tarmac leading up an incline along a stone wall. Exiting out of the path into the side street leading to the church, I saw the street was empty – the farmer’s market was not there either because of the rain or the season being over. All I’d needed was a few eggplants. Plan B meant walking out to the noisy street to the much busier nearby store. I mostly avoid this street on my walks as it requires crossing 4 lanes in front of determined and often distracted drivers who largely ignore the flashing yellow light I activate by pressing a button. I step out cautiously, trying to make eye contact with the driver to determine they’ll be slowing to a stop or at least to a miss-hitting-me speed.

This is my neighborhood where usually, I too am a driver. But I walk a lot even without a dog. Sometimes with friends. Our gabbing makes the time fly by and I don’t even glance at my phone to see how many steps I’ve wracked up. I try for the max. I almost never make it to 10,000 steps when I’m alone and am satisfied if I get in 2 miles. I don’t listen to music or podcasts because I mostly like to hear the sounds of the world around me and don’t like the feel of having earplugs in.

If I don’t get too distracted by all the memories my neighborhood evokes, my solitary walks are meditative. I try to concentrate on my breath and if I’m walking around the track (very conveniently located right next to my house) sometimes I’ll close my eyes as I go round and round the gravel circle. I practice booting out annoying thoughts that pop-up like a merry-go-round. I’m rarely inclined to walk on the track, the endless circling less appealing than exploring the world outside of me, but after a few rounds with a periodic glance at the changing sunset sky, I discover that the round and round can lead to an interior quiet that is very sweet. Even in the rain.

Blazing New Trails

Inspired by recent travels, I am trying to approach my weekends with curiosity and gusto rather than days to do laundry and errands. I love to take long walks in different places so on a recent beautiful day with the slightest hint of autumn, I visited a nearby national park where (shame on me) I’d never been.

Weir Farm – “Visit the home and studio of America’s most beloved Impressionist, J. Alden Weir, and walk in the footsteps of generations of world-class artists. Set amidst more than 60 acres of painterly woods, fields, and waterways, you’ll soon see why Weir described his home as the “Great Good Place.” Weir’s farm is a national legacy to American Impressionism, the creative spirit, and historic preservation.”

The kind park ranger at the visitor’s center walked out on the porch to point me in the right direction of the long hike he said was his favorite. He gave me a laminated map to be returned that I promptly tucked it into my bag with water bottle, journal and phone. I brought said-journal all through Greece and Italy last month and barely filled 3 pages. I had high hopes for this hike, imagining myself so inspired I’d perch on a rock to scrawl. I took the journal out of my bag even less than the map: 0 times.

Off I went, gravel crunching underfoot, ready to disappear into the woods. Well, almost ready. I should have worn long pants. Some of the trails were vague and a little overgrown. With every brush against grass, leaf, branch, I imagined microscopic ticks leaping onto my bare calves. I periodically scanned between my freckles and age spots for ticks, brushing my hands across them as if I might whisk them away. Little bastards!

I live in an urban suburb, if that make sense. I am lucky to have my own little patch of green. Today I picked a few pears from my pear tree. But the hum of the highway is ever present as are neighbors, sirens, lawn mowers, and those infernal blowers. I’d forgotten the bliss, the soar of my heart, the serenity yet excitement of being surrounded by woods and sky. The creak of a branch in the breeze high over my head. The quiet that when you listen hard enough, is full of sounds like a familiar but unknown language. The chickadees doing gymnastics almost close enough to touch, the distant woodpecker, the bird song I didn’t recognize through the rustle of leaves.

Initially I walked a sweet trail – wide and welcoming. Map forgotten, I just walked, periodically noting a dash of color on a tree marking a way. The ranger told me the white and purple trails were his favorite so I thought I’d follow those. I never saw purple – sure looked blue to me – and then some yellow and soon, I was just following whatever looked like a trail, climbing stony hills, gingerly stepping over mossy rocks across a stream, probably following deer paths. I was in heaven. Surrounded by forest quiet. Almost. There was the distant sound of a blower. Of course – it’s CT and a suburb still even here in a national park.

Worse than the blower was the noise in my head that briefly shouted louder than anything. For a moment my exhilaration was drowned out by a fear that hit me like a rogue wave. What if I twist my ankle on this now-narrow trail? Or fall down this rocky slope? At the entrance I had seen a sign about recent bear sightings. What if I encountered a bear? No – even worse: a bear and cubs with a protective mother! She’d destroy me! I stopped in my tracks and googled – what to do if you encounter a bear. Go back the way you came, don’t run but keep an eye that it’s not following you. If it does approach you, make a lot of noise and throw things at it. What would I throw? I picked up a stick that would easily snap over my knee and make great kindling. I guess I’d throw my metal water bottle.

What the hell? For a start, I had no interest in returning the way I’d come from. That’s a policy I like to follow both physically and metaphorically. Mentally I yanked myself up by the collar – why this sudden crazy anxiety? Get back to blissing out in nature! The self-scolding worked pretty well, with worry mostly banished. I’d like to disconnect that synapse in my brain connecting to imagined disasters. It’s so… old lady and I am trying to buck that trend for as long as I can.

I got lost twice (the second time with people I met on the trail – so that time, not my fault!) and ended up clocking close to 5 miles – which is weird because when I finally looked at the laminated map, no trail is much longer than 1.5 miles. That’s a lot of criss-crossing or something. When I handed the barely-glimpsed-at map back to the ranger and told him where I’d been he seemed amazed and told me almost no one goes that direction. I guess he must have decided I was a really serious hiker because he went to a back closet and gave me my very own trail map. Not laminated so I can fold it up even smaller into my bag. For next time!

Jet-Lag

Treacherous spiral staircase at a favorite airbnb.

Barely awake at a dark sleeping hour, I need to find my way to the bathroom. Eyes closed, I do a rolodex spin of recent steps to map out the way through unfamiliar rooms I’ve stayed in over the past 2 weeks. Opening my eyes a crack I realize I am in my own bed. I am home after adventures in Athens and multiple Italian towns and cities.

A day later and the liminal space between sleep and waking is like a sci-fi film of images and moments and dreams of Italy and home, blurry and stretchy, my subconscious grasps on to time and space of my recent journey. As full consciousness moves in I appreciate the familiarity and comfort, my things, my language, but dread the inevitable hum-drum and stress of routine, what needs to be done, of work life. Traveling again after so many years made my heart beat stronger. It felt good, especially this trip with the best company.

What fun we have together – lucky us! photo credits to Molly!

While unpacking and taking stock of what I need in the refrigerator, I do my best to hang on to the magic. Jet lag helps – a dreamy state with odd waking times. I try to keep my shoulders and jaw relaxed and maintain the strength my legs after clocking in an average of 8 miles a day walking. This is how I want to continue to live: healthy and paying attention! Eating good food when I’m hungry, out each day in the fresh air. Listening to my body. Well, mostly – my feet are still mad at me for ignoring them too often.

I guess I look a bit like a turtle, don’t I?

For 2 weeks I lived happily out of a carry-on backpack and now I feel ambivalent about my stuffed closet and bureau of so much clothing. I am happy for my bed although every Greek and Italian one I slept in was excellent. I delight in my garden’s bounty – bursting with tomatoes and lettuce and squash. There are even a few peaches left on my trees and pears not yet ripe that I may be able to get to before the resident squirrels. But the food tasted better over there – all of it. Even the paltry cheese toast sandwich on the train to Brindisi. They do many things much better than we do. The trains were on time. I remember there used to be jokes about Italian train times. I have no such tales to tell you from our trip except for the train we took to Rome arriving early.

Cool restaurant courtyard in Brindisi.

Yes, it is good to be home but oh, I really love Italy! This was a pilgrimage of sorts – launched in Athens for an amazing gathering of neighbors and friends to celebrate a spectacular wedding before Molly and I crossed the Adriatic over to Puglia, Italy to visit where she was born and lived for the first 4 months of her life. That will be another post. (at least) Meanwhile, I am treading in the in-between time, not ready to leave the dreamy space of the trip that was a journey of love and history and fuel for future chapters.

Fallen Branch Not Sky

Broken Branch

Rot and recent rains downed this large branch from a gigantic oak tree in my yard. It fell just to the side of the driveway, most of it landing on the patchy lawn, the leafy, smaller branches barely missing the blueberry bushes. The catbird who eats all of the berries before I can get a single one, has already perched on a fallen twig, enjoying the new perspective. The branch is big – the size of a slender tree – not something I can kick off to the side to ignore until it turns to earth. Hot and humid as yesterday was, I was determined to tackle clean up.

Mighty Oak

My mighty oak looks fine. Hopefully there aren’t too many more damaged branches. The house is a safe enough distance and while my driveway could get blocked and there’s a chance the car could be hit by future falling limbs, I’m not very worried. Oaks are good old trees with deep roots – as my undulating driveway illustrates. Unlike some of my neighbors, I embrace the beautiful shade and oxygen producing trees and do not see them as a threat. Knock wood. haha. Still, I’ve been peering up at my trees more than usual.

Chain Saw

Oak is a hard wood and this branch will be good burning in another six months but getting it cut into logs is a challenge for my little electric chain saw. I don’t often feel overwhelmed by these tasks that in the old days the man in my life would take care of, but yesterday, I did. I don’t know how and really don’t want to attempt to sharpen the chain on my chainsaw but I am pretty sure it’s because it’s dull that it got stuck twice while I was cutting. Thanks youtube – I managed to get the well cursed out chain dislodged although the second time (use one ax as a wedge while knocking it with the back of another ax – yes, I have two rusty old axes.) brought me close to tears. And for a flash, I thought, this is all too much for me to take care of.

Don’t worry, that passed. At least for now. My house is old and I love it even if that means it needs lots of work as does my yard full of trees and shrubs. I love the sweet habitat all these leaves and branches lend to a myriad of wildlife and birds providing enough pleasure for me that I don’t begrudge them my blueberries and strawberries. I look up at the trees regularly watching birds and the squirrels do crazy gymnastics or just marveling at the fractals and leaves while I listen to the breezes and rain. Still, sometimes, after a big branch falls, I have a moment of catastrophic thinking.

In all aspects of my life I’ve been trying to resist a knee-jerk reaction of worst case scenario. Whether I am looking upward or inward, I want to go to the marvel part of my brain not the lurking disaster. I’m hoping this thinking is like a muscle and I can build it up and strengthen it, to edge out the shit-thinking. I lived through some crazy times in my life so it’s no wonder that I go to that place where my heart races and hands shake. I still need to remind myself that insane days are gone and I need to resist the stress and gloom and embrace small challenges like this. I want to be like the catbird and enjoy the different perspective that a fallen branch can bring.

And I bought a new chain for my chainsaw.

The Sounds of Summer

As soon as the plastic sheeting came off the first window, the atmosphere changed. After a bang or two and lots of heaving, I prop open the wooden frames that have been sealed with tape and plastic for winter. Breezes and blossom and newly mown lawn scents flow through the house. And noise. So much noise!

There are construction sounds from endless roadwork, trucks plowing up and down I-95 and a steady whoosh of cars. Lawnmowers and the hated leaf blowers are back in action. Some days, there’s the barking dog (no longer mine) and the crack of bats on baseballs from the nearby field. And just now, a siren of an ambulance careening through the neighborhood followed by the 6:55 morning train whistle stopping to pick up commuters into the city. It’s not as bad as the constant racket that’s the background noise to every telephone conversation I have with my sister in NYC, but it’s still urban cacophony.

In time, I grow used to the sounds of summer and adore the airy lightness in my home with doors and windows open and space between inside-outside, blurred. (Although after a chipmunk scurried across my living room last week, I’ve become a more cautious about leaving the back door open!) I am sad when it becomes time to close up when it grows chilly. And likewise, I feel a little shock when taking down insulation, ending the-almost silence in opening the house in spring. And why is the ice cream truck playing bad Christmas music?

I have become increasingly sensitive to sound even as my hearing deteriorates with age. This I can measure by watching television with my daughter: How can you hear what they’re saying, I ask as I crank up the volume. My tolerance for socializing in a crowded setting is low – restaurants and bars not so much fun. I hate having to scream and strain to hear what someone is saying over music. Listening to music is mostly done while driving although when I need to pay close attention, like going in reverse, I turn it off.

Silence is tough to find and sometimes, it’s what I crave more than anything. A reason to move to the country, live in the woods. Or at least visit more often, disappear into a forest and listen to the trees. Noise is one of the top reasons I never want to live in NYC again.

Who else here remembers this commercial?

Am I turning into a crank or what?

The Hedge

An old photo

Photographs remind me that the privet hedge surrounding the house was once no more than waist high. Now, the long stretch of it is taller than my late husband’s 6 foot 4 height. Despite my diligence in trimming, the size of this bush has become unmanageable. Entire sections grew beyond my reach even with the extension pole on the clipper. Last summer, after a few sweaty attempts at taming, I surrendered and let it grow rogue – some shoots growing to 10 feet.

Pruning in Progress

Years ago, a friend advised me to cut it back before it buds but I never shook winter’s torpor in time until this year when February felt more like March. Not wanting to look any more like the crazy house on the corner, I began tackling the massive job of pruning 2-3 feet off the top. It’s been more than 2 weeks and I’m still at it.

I bought a new handheld chain saw that I thought would have me zipping through this job but, chain saws are not great for shrubbery. It helps with the thick branches but the speeding blades turn the sprigs into whips dangerously slapping around my face and snagging in the chain. It chews at the unsteady branches like an attacking dog, resulting in ragged, splintered cuts. No, this job requires laborious, slow, hand-cutting, branch-by-branch. With lobber in hand and small clipper in my pocket, I start at the top of the driveway moving to the middle, then out to the street side – all the while, looking at the whole, as if I were working on a sculpture.

Turns out, I mostly enjoy this slow process. The job is meditative and memories flow. I remember how I learned to do this work from George – a tiny man who I’ve long described as old but now being there myself, I wonder what his age was. Probably younger than I am now. I was 18 and working with the university’s landscape crew the summer after my sophomore year at UCONN. He showed me how to prune vines and yew and privet. “You have to feel it in here,” he said, touching his heart. I was an art student frustrated with my teachers but George spoke to me, inspiring me more than any of those professors.

So, with my heart and increasingly achey arms, I snip, lob, snip, leaning out into the scratchy branches to reach a sucker a foot higher than the rest. It’s tough to cut and I’m at a bad angle and my foot slips on the the dry leaves beneath, but I shift my grip and squeeze and the blade breaks through and clicks as if in satisfaction. It’s hard to believe that once our neighbors could easily hand us a cup of sugar over this now gigantic bush. I need to bring it down low enough so I don’t have to get up on a ladder to prune.

The Hedge in Snow

This part of the hedge is where our Cairn Terrier, Tetley, used to dash through into the street to bark and otherwise greet passing dogs. A little to the left there is still enough of a hole to slip through as a short-cut to go to our neighbor’s house – something Molly did for years. Thanks to a volunteer oak tree that insists on growing back each year to lay claim to this space, the hole remains.

The Fallen Tree

Every inch of this property and house is dense with memories, and this hedge is a tangle of them. As I pull out a thick growth, years of images come with it. Here’s where the bird’s nest was one year – lots of screaming and horror as a momma came squawking out at me and I worried I’d killed her babies but no bodies were found. Here’s where the dead elm tree fell in an early autumn snow storm, blocking the road and knocking the privet branches down, leaving a gap like a missing tooth. Once the tree was taken away, Molly and I pushed the roots back, straightening the section as much as we could and by late summer, the space had filled with new growth. It’s easy to spot the damage in winter but luckily, even at a 45 degree angle, the branches bloom in Spring covering the evidence.

Molly has memories of her own around the hedge. When I told her about my new chainsaw she remembered the summer her dad cut himself with the hedge-clipper, resulting in lots of blood. Joking about childhood trauma, she urged me to be very careful. Yes, the hedge has experienced all sorts of drama. My roughest memory is pushing aside branches in a section we never crawled through before, guiding my 8 year old ahead of me through the thick snarl of wood to the street. This was on the morning of Neil’s death, and I knew I could not let Molly see what I saw.

Our privet gives us privacy and has hidden sadness and even terrible things but within its green boundary, there have been more scenes of joy and laughter. Watching my daughter play and grow and run and swing across our lawn, joined by two of the sweetest dogs, first Tetley then Rufus – both blissfully chasing an abundance of squirrels. This woody shrubbery surrounds a place of love and good memories, including most of the years with Neil and then Rob. Despite the heartbreak of their stories, I also recall the love and sweetness and that they both made me laugh more than cry.

Published as a surprise in Molly’s high school yearbook. The community that help raise her.

I thought I could just zoom through this make-over with a fancy tool but it’s a gift to take the time to trim, pare down, decide what branches to take out, where to cut so new growth will sprout easily. This scramble of fractals encompasses my life. I am not only preserving a boundary but creating space so I can accept the sugar offered my way.

Ohm and Other Options

During these winter days, sky heavy with clouds, I have to remind myself that I like four seasons and appreciate this time of hibernation. I welcome the nudge to go inward and further into darkness although sometimes it feels a fine line between rich reflecting and just holing up. I’ve been trying to find some balance and peace in all the gloom rather than just wait for a sunny day.

Beach grass in winter turns inward too!

In that spirit, I’m attempting to revive whatever scraps of past meditation practices I can remember. There were times in my life when I began and sometimes ended the day in meditation but like many a good habit, this one fell by the wayside. I’d like to start again. Too often my mind takes off like a racehorse. Or more like a tornado – twisting and turning, whipping up dread, catastrophe, chaos with a little nonsense mixed in.

The benefits of sitting, focused, breathing are clear. Conscious breathing alone calms and quiets. Sometimes I catch myself in a day, not breathing deeply or even at all. Try it. Check yourself right now – are you breathing well? Filling your abdomen, chest, lungs and then releasing completely? I was not, I realized after I wrote those words and checked my own breathing. I tend to take shallow breaths, sometimes holding my breath in a weird pause.

These Brant geese spend their winters here.

Breath is so expressive. Deep breath. Sigh. Gasp. Breath is life – the beginning and end. I remember when premie-baby Molly came home after 3 first weeks of the hospital looking after her. Now she was mine to care for. Holding my own breath, I watched for hers.

Thinking about my breath leads me back to something bigger than the chatter in my head about what to make for dinner, bills to pay, people to call, work issues, or something that happened 40 years ago. Random thoughts spinning through my mind endlessly. Breath and mind are amazingly linked and breath is a good boss to keep things in line.

Thoughts of Rufus in this ridiculous sweatsuit definitely distracts me. Although laughing is good!

With so many schools, techniques, philosophies around meditation, it’s hard to know what’s the way for me and if I’m doing it ‘right’. And of course, what IS right? I watched a promo pitch for Transcendental Meditation online. I had to sign up for the promo session and when I did, promptly began receiving texts and phone calls from Fairfield, Iowa. And that made me think of Tony from 40 years ago who hitched rides on freight trains from Fairfield, Iowa where he went to Maharashi University (home of Transcendental Meditation) to Cincinnati where he would show up at crazy hours and toss pebbles at my window. I lived in a converted school building in the middle of a derelict neighborhood. There was a closet in the hallway converted into a shower. Thinking back, the common spaces were pretty creepy as was the neighborhood of burned out buildings. But our studios were amazing. Hardwood floors, blackboards and light pouring in all day through old wavy panes of glass. Tony never talked about TM or Maharashi but he played guitar and sang really sweetly and while I’m not usually a sucker for that kind of thing, he was good and did I say he was cute? I wonder if he’s still alive (we’re all getting old and he used to jump on and off freight trains after all) and if he still meditates? Interesting and creative people do TM like the director David Lynch, Jerry Seinfeld, Mick Jagger. Still, I’m not sure I want to pay over $700 to learn the secrets.

See how my mind goes off on a spin any chance it can get? Sitting quietly for more than 10 minutes takes practice and I am out of practice. I try setting a timer and still end up cracking open one eye to see if time is up, kind of hoping that it is. Why? So I can get up and go about my day working for the dollar? Maybe I’m hungry. Or I feel like I have to get started on something else. What’s so important that it can’t wait 5 more minutes? 10, 20 even? Nothing. I know that if I can train myself to do this regularly, I’ll feel more peaceful, calm, less crazed. It’s worked before. Maybe I should cough up $700. That’s a lot for me. I tried some online guided sessions but found most of the voices annoying. I prefer the quiet although I signed up for something called a sound-bath session in a neighboring town. Sound is important. I do like saying ‘ohm!’ either alone or in a group. There’s a nice vibration that’s settling and centering. We’ll see.

Do you meditate? What works for you? xxx

Follow

Get every new post on this blog delivered to your Inbox.

Join other followers:

%d bloggers like this: