A Walk in the Catskills

This afternoon, I forced myself away from my writing chair to take a walk. My bones were starting to ache from sitting so much.  I took a right out of the driveway and walked. I walked fast. I wanted my heart to beat a little faster, maybe even to break a sweat. I also hoped to find an end to the road. And, to get back to work. Then, I passed this beautiful field.

A woman a few decades older than me walked the other way and I said, “How are you?” and she answered, “Not as brisk as you are!” and I felt foolish, like a ridiculous speed-walker I might have once made fun of. So I slowed down. Here’s what else I saw:

Retreat – Day Two

Yesterday, I spent almost the entire day in my room writing, popping downstairs every few hours for nourishment from food and friends. Here’s where I am working.The view is of trees and a glimmer of river. There is a road too, but I have selective vision and not too many cars pass by. All day, I sat and worked on changes to my manuscript suggested by my very smart, very generous new friend, author of Tolstoy and the Purple Chair, Nina Sankovitch. Working through the pages, my heart fills with the attention she paid.  This is the story of how I learned to write — big-hearted, insightful readers – friends, agents, strangers even, have helped me to shape my tale into a book. I feel like I am almost there.  I imagine myself finished, at my own book event for a change. Someone asks the inevitable question – “how long did it take you to write?” What will I say?

I feel so compelled to keep going that today will probably also be spent at this desk. But my body demands movement so I will force myself to take a walk – perhaps over the river rocks, balancing across the currents. Last year I was mesmerized by the tricky scramble over slippery stones.  But being able to focus all day on writing is a gift. I could stay up here all day and my friends would leave me be. But their presence offers laughter, comfort and inspiration.

When I ventured down yesterday for a cup of tea mid-afternoon, Laura was sorting her pastels out on the porch. “Do you want to listen to something?” she offered, then hooked me up to her ipod.  I sat, eyes closed listening to mystical choral music I may otherwise never have heard. Then I went back to work until the smells of dinner wafted up the stairs.

Dinner last night was by Laura – quinoa patties from my new favorite cookbook Super Natural Cooking Everyday, a magnificent salad by Diane and farm stand corn with sage butter.   Delicious. 

 

 

Studio 70 Artists’ Retreat 2011

For the third year in a row, I am back in the Catskills with my “Studio 70 Sisters” for our own mini-artist’s retreat.  Studio 70 refers to the place where we all met as art students of Mike Skop when we were all in our 20s. Many years have passed but we all still remember how to give each other time and space — lessons Mike taught well on so many levels.

Right now I am sitting by the window in a patch of morning sun. With eyes closed, one might think it is raining, the rushing river across the way is so loud.

Yesterday, the four or us caught up on the year, gabbing on the porch, while making and eating dinner, drinking wine. We agreed this is one of our favorite things about this time: our dinners.  Last night’s meal was a salad of greens I picked from my garden before leaving Connecticut, and CSA farm cucumbers and onions, garlicky dressing and feta cheese. Diane sauteed Portabella mushrooms Cathy spotted at the farm stand down the road.

This morning, the house is quiet, each of us doing exactly what we want to be doing. (and that may include thinking about what to make for dinner!)

Bliss.

 

Gardenias At Last!

 

I wish I could share the scent of these waxy, fine blossoms — heavenly! This little Gardenia plant has lived with me for about five years and this is the first time it has blossomed.  My chair pulled up beside the pot, I lean down every few minutes to inhale the perfume from now, multiple blossoms. See —

My favorite flowers are fragrant. I force Hyacinth and Paper Whites when the snow still covers the ground — breathing their heady scent as I come in from the cold reassures me that spring is not so far away. Lilacs evoke something old-fashioned and dreamy from childhood weekends spent in the country. Gardenias — they transport me to the south of Italy. There was a bush heavy with blooms in a planter on the veranda where I read and napped, waiting for Molly’s imminent birth. Exotic and rich, to me these exquisite blooms smell like love.

July 4th Rant

At the risk of being branded un-patriotic (fine with me but that’s another topic), I am declaring the 4th of July my least favorite holiday. It’s not political – but the bloody fireworks freak my poor dog out so much that even a full valium (the vet recommended a quarter to a half pill) had absolutely no effect on him. For three days, as the sun set and the bangs began, Tetley was a miserable, panting, pacing, barking mess.

I’ve tried everything including a ‘Thundershirt‘ purchased hopefully just a month or so ago. He likes it, probably because he knows how handsome he looks in it — but it isn’t as effective as the company’s website video suggests (surprise!) — he is barely calmer – but I’ll take it.

Also, the noises bother me too, reminding me quite convincingly of the real thing: mortar shells whistling before the thud of landing, gun battles in the hills and the streets of Bosnia and Croatia. Not nice, not fun — not at all.

No Place Like Home

Here I am, getting all women’s magazine-y, between yesterday’s travelogue and today, I cannot resist posting these photos of our corner of summer bliss. But how better to illustrate why I am happy enough to be an armchair traveler these days. After a few hours of kayaking around the beautiful Norwalk Islands – only minutes from this magical spot under our grape arbor.  

For dinner I grated summer squash and a let it simmer in the skillet in a bath of olive oil and a massive clove of garlic.  This I mixed with the garlic scape pesto I’d made earlier in the week and a few cherry tomatoes thrown in for color to coat the pasta.  Between bites, we wondered what to do with all these grapes.  Any ideas? 

Vicarious Travel – Croatia

A friend’s daughter is traveling in Europe – now in Italy, next stop – Croatia. I thought about that beautiful place where I lived from 1992-1996 as a UN staff member and with pleasure, imagined myself a 20-something with a back-pack. Here’s what I would do:

Travel via often overlooked city of Trieste  for a last taste of Italy  (James Joyce is just one of the many writers and artists who spent time here.) Or maybe, stop in Slovenia — I hear the main city, Ljubljana is now full of hip, young people hanging at the outdoor cafes. Cross over into Croatia and explore Istria – this sweet bit of coast with Pula at the tip of it, has an abundance of rocky beaches and tourist-ready spots – very Italian influenced as once-upon a time, it was part of Italy. Then, high-tail it to the Dalmatian Coast – in my opinion, one of the most beautiful stretches in the world. Maybe ferry-hop (from Rijeka?) through the islands all the way down to stunning Dubrovnik – an incredible stone city in a fortress – right on the sea.  Perhaps a stop in Split, worth checking out for Diocletian’s Palace and Mestrovic museum. Or pause at any of the charming fishing villages to eat great seafood (Risotta – black with squid ink) swim – dive off rocks for a swim in the clearest water you’ve ever seen.

The Adriatic Sea is the most amazing mix of blues, emerald greens lapping up against the largely-undeveloped, dramatic landscape of Croatia.  The food may not knock your socks off and last I remember, the people were not the jolliest, but the country is gorgeous.

If it’s possible to leave the beautiful coast, travel inland to Plitvice National Park. Pass through bucolic, gorgeous countryside, full of rocks, fields and flashes from another time – scenes of ancient women in black herding goats, horse drawn wagons overflowing with hay. Plitivice is a great place to hike — trails lead through lush forest and open up at regular intervals onto lakes and waterfalls that seem to be a moving weave of rainbows. This park – in fact – much of the country was closed to tourists when I was there so we went (wary of landmines) we would only see the odd soldier or other UN folk. Still, I imagine that even now there are not too many tourists.

From Plitvice, go to Zagreb – a charming and cosmopolitan city with trams, lots of art museums, great Austo-Hungarian architecture and plenty of busy squares with cafes to sit and people watch. Start with a cup of two of the dark, silty coffee then switch over to the good local beer and breathe deeply and savor it all.

That’s what I would do.

Making Peace

Yesterday ventured into the garden recently ransacked by the groundhog.  For hours, I tore at the plant-to-plant weeds filling the space between surviving tomatoes, peppers and a little bit of basil. I tore at the earth with claw rakes and knelt to yank out the crabgrass, shaking off damp soil that clung to the roots before tossing them in a pile.  I had been ready to abandon this space but yesterday, my nails filled with dirt, rediscovering little peppers ready to pick and some vining plant that escaped Chuck’s teeth, (cucumber? melon? pumpkin?) I am back in the fray.

For one, there is a way I am – a state of being I get into when I garden that these days is the closest I come to meditating. The focus, concentration, complete engagement I feel, is a beautiful thing. It would be nice if there was lettuce left, but there will be tomatoes and some really hot peppers and the bonus of a certain peace of mind and sometimes inspiration to boot.  Harvest is not just about the vegetables.

 

Birth Days

A bright Sunday morning, still early enough to be quiet – no lawnmowers or blowers, no cheering from the baseball field. There is even an occasional lull of quiet between the usually relentless highway  whoosh of cars and louder, barreling truck noises. But looking out at the evidence of M’s 16th birthday celebration I can still hear the laughter, singing and whooping of more than a dozen teenagers who gathered on our lawn last night. A few napkins and cups litter the the grass and on the table there are empty ice-tea jugs, wooden sticks used to melt marshmallows. Good kids, (no beer bottles, no cigarettes) they brought in the (junk) food and blankets last night – the remaining mess will take only minutes to clean up. Maybe I’ll need to whip up breakfast for the three that slept over but more likely, they’ll slip out early to go home to celebrate Father’s Day – a holiday we are exempt from in this house.

I was dreading ‘the gathering of teens’ at our house — too many horror stories of crashed parties and trashed houses. So the little bit of mess outside is benign.  Sixteen years ago, although M was already a week old – she remained in an open incubator in a Brindisi hospital. Born almost 2 months early in the wrong country, she spent her first three weeks being swaddled and sung to by loving Italian nurses. That stint in an Italian neonatology ward was a frightening, crash-course in motherhood: the worry never really goes away.  But at least for now, my beautiful, Italian baby is just fine.

Surrender

I give up — Chuck wins. Tomatoes, peppers, onions and weeds – plenty of weeds are all that remains in my garden. Over the last few days, groundhog trampled and ate the peas, the radishes, eggplant, cilantro, kale — it’s all gone — only sad little markers left like plastic tombstones.  I can’t help feeling like he was just being vindictive, which I know is silly. This is not some Disney animation where the animals behave like humans – I planted things that taste good to him and he ate it all – that’s it. This year in particular, he seemed to be hungrier than ever leaving me with almost nothing, but he wasn’t really being malicious. Still, I can’t help feeling wounded and a tad hopeless about future gardening.

Chuck gnawed right into the core of my optimism and it is this that has me down as much as my disappointment that there will be no sunflowers towering over the garden this year.  I rarely feel defeated for long and this will probably pass quickly – but for now I am in retreat, regrouping on what is possible and what is not.  And is it all just a crapshoot? And to think that farmers live this way, trusting each year, that nature will be benevolent and there crops will thrive rather than be iced, roasted, eaten or otherwise destroyed. I’m not sure I could do it.

Gardening doubt creeps into thoughts about the rest of my life – a shadow of pessimism about everything I am spending my time and energy on. What’s it all for?  Why bother?  It’s difficult not to focus on expected results instead of just embracing the process — even when there are hiccups along the way, with determination, and certainly some love, it can all be kickstarted again. And as for gardening, in the future, I’ll try planting my greens in pots and putting them up high beyond greedy Chuck’s formidable teeth.

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