Fires Raging – What’s the Plan?

For days I followed the news and social media and studied regularly updated Los Angeles fire maps to count the scant (5!) number of blocks of buffer between the ‘Recommended Evacuation’ zone and where my daughter lives.

December 2024 – Foreboding clouds over the Pacific Palisades.

During the holidays Molly, Rufus and I walked along the spectacularly gorgeous stretch along the Pacific. Not long after I returned to Connecticut, news cameras set up on that same sidewalk to report on the flames destroying homes in the Palisades. Smoke hung like nuclear clouds behind the newscasters over the lovely-now-deadly hills that border the Pacific. On one of our walks in December the ocean was particularly wild and clouds were almost frightening, hovering over the mountains in the distance. I took the photograph above. It seems like a disturbing premonition of things to come.

December Walk through what will soon be in the recommended evacuation zone.

The terrible destruction of the fires, the awful loss in communities across the city, is heartbreaking and shocking. Winds have whipped through those gorgeous dry mountains forever. This latest destruction is historically the worst – because of humans. Greedy humans, mostly men, who ignore climate change and care more about their own wealth and survival than us little guys. Most wars can also be tracked back to the same base intentions. When I worked in peacekeeping at the UN my boss would in whisper to me, refer to the leaders sitting around negotiating tables as gangsters.

And today in this country we make our own version of gangsters, official. Welcome to the autocracy. Inauguration day.

I have no idea how to navigate these next years but I will do my best not to live in anger. I will turn to and build my communities and find new ones. Neighbors coming together is a powerful thing. We see this in LA and hopefully, in our own lives. I certainly have. Hope and love lives in communities as do solutions.

My first instinct is as a parent – to protect my child. No matter that she lives across the country and is a grown woman taking excellent care of herself. I watch the flames, worry about the smoke and bad air, climate change. I fear for her future with this new administration. Yes, she is white with the privilege that comes with it – but she is a woman. I fear for young women and tell them to stock up on birth control for starters.

Here’s a ray of hope: today is the day we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday. Initially my reaction to inauguration day being the same as Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday celebration seemed terrible. An insult to his legacy. Now I realize, this is a sweet invitation to focus on remembering MLK and looking for hope and a way – rather than pay attention to the depressing pomp and parade of oligarchs ready to take the reins. Martin Luther King Jr. offers us a different door with a path to follow. We must keep the dream alive! Be Love. We can do this.

*The King Center: Established in 1968 by Mrs. Coretta Scott King, The Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change

I find Timothy Snyder’s list still stands and provides . Author of On Tyranny – a book I purchased and sent out to many friends last time this nightmare was in power. Time to dig it out again. Or just refer to the list link above.

PS: Molly is safe and loving her life in beautiful California.

Wonders

Canyon Country

My Tasmanian handyman recently told me while fixing a leak in my basement that the ‘on’ position for light switches in Australia, is down. To turn ‘off’ the switch goes up. Completely opposite to here. Also, water swirls in the opposite direction when going down the drain.

Yesterday I flew from NYC to Los Angeles to visit my daughter and woke at 3 AM California time — 6 AM in the morning at home in Connecticut – thinking about this stuff. I lay wide awake pondering time, distance and space. I’ve just retired after a lifetime of working – thus, have the leisure to wonder at existence. Of course I know about the differences in hemispheres (although the switch tidbit was new to me!) but it’s been awhile since I’ve focused on how amazing and profound it all is. Flying across the country helped launch me further into this state.

The day of my departure from Connecticut, I left my warm bed at 4:45 in the morning to catch an early morning flight. Within hours after take-off, I was peering down at the wide and empty plains of Missouri, then the Colorado Rockies, the Painted Desert, the Grand and many other fine canyons until reaching the Pacific. I always opt for a window seat. On this flight I noted that few other passengers cracked open the plastic shutter, apparently preferring the darkened airplane cabin to the views outside. I thought about but resisted inviting the sleeping young woman next to me to gawk at the amazing landscape below. I suspect she wouldn’t be interested.

Luckily, my daughter is susceptible to my enthusiasm. Molly also marvels at the world. Last night, walking through a grocery store parking lot she pointed out planets in the darkening sky. Turns out there were no stars to be seen but shining away, above us and brightest of all was the planet of love: Venus. We hooked arms and peered up at the sky together.

Today marks a full week of no longer working. I pinch myself, free to feel and wonder unencumbered by demands on my time, free to move through space, be awed by magnificent landscapes and the flutter of a hummingbird zipping by. (thank you California!) Free to think about my friends and family around the world, perhaps sleeping as I’m awake, easing into summer as we in the north, hunker down for dark cold days.

Maybe I will read more about the science of earth shifts but for now, it’s the being part that interests me. I am here, now in the present and that’s just a fact – for every second there is. It’s as if, after years of focusing on day to day routine of my life as an employee, that I’ve been freed to dust off and switch my lens from macro to wide angle. I try to fathom and catch up to the miracles of this spinning world. Billions of us beings, breathing, hearts beating, simultaneously. New hearts emerge as others exit in every corner of the earth. It’s all a marvel!

The Day After

I cannot believe we are here again. Last time I spent 4 long years being furious. Now I resist the pull of anger, determined to not to be poisoned. I am angry but also, I am grieving the lost glimmer of hope for social justice. The truth has been made clear: this country is controlled by the very rich. White men who only care about themselves. They won. Now they plan to close the door, batten down the hatches. The despicable silver-spoon billionaires now laugh at the rest of us.

I vow to do what I can to let love fill the space where anger wants to live. I will love, stand with and protect my daughter and other young women, people of color, the LGBTQ community, immigrants and refugees. Those of us who care must now protect and love each other more than ever.

On Wednesday morning after learning the results of the election, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide all day. Instead, I kept the commitment I’d made to read to students in a nearby city. When I arrived at the school, I randomly picked one of the titles selected for the volunteer readers. I chose The Oldest Student: How Mary Walker Learned to Read by Rita Lorraine Hubbard and was assigned to read to a class of 5th graders.

The teacher welcomed me and told me her class is bilingual and not all the students speak English. She would help as necessary. I introduced myself, and could see from the children’s faces that most did not understand me. I speak no Spanish. So I read slowly.

One boy, more confident and fluent than the others, chimed in where he could to translate key points. Clearly he had taken on the role of a good leader and was keen to share the joy and wonder of the book with his friends, translating what he could understand so they too would at least get the gist of the story. Every bright face followed along as I pointed at the illustrations.

The story is a true and amazing one. Mary Walker began life as a young child slave forced to pick cotton. She was freed with her family at 15, worked to help her mother support her siblings, married and raised her own children while always working. She never learned to read. Pausing after each depiction of Mary’s life I asked them: can Mary read? And they answered: NO! Mary finally did learn to read when she was 116 years old! I asked then: can Mary read? And the class gave me a resounding YES! They got it. The room thrummed with an air of understanding and awe as much at Mary Walker’s longevity as her late life accomplishment. Ah, the joy of reading!

And the tears. While reading, I sometimes felt like crying. Because of the story line, because of the election results, and because I imagined that the hardships suffered by Mary Walker are probably not unfamiliar to these children’s families. Their parents struggle to feed, clothe, protect them as parents do. Most do this at all costs. I’d wager a good percentage of that class, maybe even all, are undocumented and we know what that means. What will 2025 hold for these children?

Judging by the level of their English, I think most are recent arrivals. Perhaps some came through the horrors of the Darien gap – a terrible trek of terror and misery that so many families endured to get here. Hoping for a better life for their children. Hoping for LIFE. During the years I worked in Bosnia and Croatia during the war there, I witnessed the desperation of families forced to flee a home, their roots. Imagine leaving your language, your family, all that is familiar and comforting. No one leaves their home unless they must.

Here we are. On the brink. The American people have spoken and now have what they want. But not all of us. Not these children, not me.

An October Saturday Report

Chickadee Breakfast

Wrens, sparrows, robins, blue jays and the rest of the gang stopped by all summer to splash in the bird bath but for the first time since spring, I’ve starting filling the bird feeder again. For months, there’s been no shortage of berries and bugs for them to eat but now that cold weather is creeping back on us, I want to them to know I’ll be here for them.

Saturday was a glorious warm October day and I spent time sitting on the front porch watching the feeder action and soaking in the sun. A few squirrels foraged for seeds in the fallen leaves with the mourning doves, who prefer the ground for eating – their unwieldy bodies challenged by my vertical feeder. A blue jay noisily announced it’s arrival before gorging on sunflower seeds. Nuthatches and chickadees skittered about joining in with lots of peeping, other jays squawking and squirrels chattering – when they all suddenly quieted. After the audible mass flutter of wings as everyone took off, the yard was silent. There must be a bird of prey around, I thought and briefly looked up at the sky and through the branches. No sign of anything. I returned to staring at my phone and drinking my tea. Whoosh! On the lounge chair a few feet away from me, landed a gorgeous and very large hawk – facing me – both of us wide eyed.

We gazed at each other in shock before it took off with a few flaps across the yard. No hunting in this neighborhood, at least for now! The moment was thrilling and I’m glad none of my feeder-friends became lunch. And what a fantastic cooperative security system they have!

Sound and Seagrass

Around 3, I took the kayak out for what might end up being the last paddle of the season. The sun, still deliciously hot, warmed the wind that made paddling tough but caused no chill. While the water looked relatively calm on the surface, the current was pushing me in directions I didn’t intend so I abandoned my intent to go straight across to the island about 20 minutes away. Instead I lingered near the sandbar that disappears at high tide. I floated, listening to the wind rustle through the sea grass. That was enough.

Sunday Worship on the Isthmus

While driving to the beach on Sunday, a trio of young women caught my eye. They were hurrying towards St. Thomas church, I suspect, a little late to 9 o’clock mass. I glanced at my dashboard clock – 9:10 and the church doors were closed. I was a child the last time I made a dash for mass. My relationship with organized religion ended shortly after my confessional encounter with a ‘father’ whose priest name I forgot along with the prayers he’d assigned me as penance for my venial sin. Nothing from that religion ever stuck again.

When Molly was about 6, Neil and I explored a few churches in the neighborhood – me grasping at straws in search of a miracle or at least guidance in navigating the tortuous road we were on. Also, I figured my daughter should get some religious exposure in spite of my own ambivalent faith. We landed for the longest period of time with the Unitarian Church – about the least churchy of all churches. Molly went to religious instruction celebrating the fun holidays of all major religions and that was enough for her. Neil and I both adored the minister who grappled with questions and peppered his contemplations with poetry. The walls were glass and in the warmer months, opened to bird songs and the rustle of leaves, scents and breezes wafting through. There were some fleeting moments of healing there.

Photo courtesy of Molly

I am no longer quite as church-averse as I used to be. I appreciate the value of community and a gathering of like minds toward a peaceful end can be powerful. I feel rich in friendship from different times and circles in my life and treasure shared meals, walks, adventures, laughter, tears. But for contemplation, I have long been content to retreat to my own space – loving the solitude of a kayak on the Sound. But that might be changing. Perhaps it’s my recent yoga-camp stints that opened my mind about finding a community for shared reflection. And prayer? Maybe. But not yet. I will wait to explore this when I’m done with working. For now I have freedom only on weekends and am loathe to sign up for anything that feels required. Yes, that Catholic stuff is hard to shake.

Another by Molly – taken on her recent visit!

I started this with the intention to write about being on the water, not to plunge into my spiritual journey! And yet, as I paddled away from the shoreline across the calm water with only the odd early fisherman speeding by in a motor boat – I exclaimed – this! This! THIS is my church!

Working on my miracle skills. photo credit – Molly

My paddling was strong and the sun felt good – not yet the glaring heat forecast for the afternoon. I quickly made it to a favorite sandbar. An isthmus of rocks and shells. It’s here that the start of the Norwalk islands begins for me and usually as far as my paddling ambition will take me. This morning, as I reached the sandbar, I pulled my plastic boat over the slippery rocks, took off my life-vest, glasses, hat and plunged into the cold water. After a few underwater strokes, the hum of the Sound in my ears, I popped my head out of the water with a gasp as much to express my elation as to gulp in air. This is my baptism! My first swim of the season out there on my own little beach for as long as the tide stays out.

Within hours, this isthmus disappears, rocks and shells clicking and clacking against each other in the waves as the water shifts. The sandy spot and others like it, will emerge and vanish, over and over again, the land shape and me changing with the tides.

Bird Report

The birds are up early these days and on a recent morning, so was I. At least long enough to open my Cornell Merlin app to identify who was trilling away at 4:30 AM. (Robin.) I easily identified a Crow-cawing in the distance. These days there have been an abundance of Crows and sometimes Ravens flapping and gabbing dramatically around the neighborhood. They seem to like the dead trees and look particularly fantastic high up on the bare branches. Ravens are larger than Crows and have a different pitch to their song – if you can call the noise they make a song. One expert describes both birds as having complicated lives and I translate that to mean interesting and welcome them and all feathered creatures. Cats sometimes wander through my yard on hunting sprees and I tell them that they can go after the rodents (chipmunks don’t seem as cute as they used to) but please leave the birds alone.

I don’t judge the eating habits of the natural world as us humans have nothing to brag about. Still, it made me sad to find a swirled cushion of grass on my lawn. As I got closer, I saw the nest wreckage of blue eggshells nearby. I doubt these were hatched. There’d recently been lots of Robin screeching and wing flapping drama as momma and poppa Robin fended off a Blue Jay. Either the same Jay or a Crow or some other culprit ultimately succeeded in breaching their defense.

More joyously, a few weeks ago I was standing on my porch surveying my estate (haha!) with a cup of coffee in hand, when a huge bird flapped low across the yard directly in front of me clutching a snake in very large talons. I stepped off the porch to follow this massive bird and… wait — does it have a white head? It landed on a high branch in a neighbor’s tree and I saw clearly – it was an American Eagle! Gobsmacked, I walked closer but it took no notice of me at all and seemed only mildly annoyed with the Crows squawking and circling madly above. Did they want the snake? Was it territory they were defending?

I knew that there were Eagles around these past few years but had yet to see one in the wild. And here it was! Regally, as if showing off for me, it let me admire its perfect profile. Twice it let out a high pitched, gull sounding-screech in answer to the harassment of the crows. I whispered my exclamations to nobody. (I can still conjure the thrill!) I have no pictures – not wanting to miss a moments sight of this beauty to retrieve my phone from the porch.

I’m currently on my porch on this overcast Sunday afternoon. A teeny song Wren briefly stopped by to sit so close I might have touched it. House Sparrows boisterously tweet from some nook I can’t spot and a pair of sweet Cardinals are silently popping in and out of the hedge. I can hear a Mourning Dove sounding lazy and sweet. My app notes a Gray Catbird – one of my favorites – but there’s no sign of it. Catbirds, like Blue Jays are fantastic mimics. According to my app just now I was listening to an Osprey and then a Hawk – but the app was fooled by Mr. Blue Jay trying to impress us or scare the smaller birds. Or just for fun? Are they mean? The rich lives lived in the leafy summer branches of my trees is mostly invisible to me but I listen to them. I don’t feed them much in the summer, but every day I fill the bird bath and I think they love me for it although not as much as I love them.

Happy Summer!

Listening to the Universe

I woke at 4 AM unable to sleep so I surrendered to the day and turned the light on. If needed, I could nap later – no need to struggle for more hours of sleep like I might on a work day. Was it worry about money, health or work that kept me from slumber? No, the burning question keeping me lit was how and where should I build a wattle fence. Yes – a wattle fence – a simple, handmade structure created from branches. Mine would not be woven like ones I referenced online at 4 AM. My plan was to sort by size and then simply layer the pruned branches of my fruit trees.

After contemplating different corners of my property, I decided to build it beside the deck in place of a broken step I regularly needed to warn visitors away from. The whole wattling (can it be a verb?) process took less than 2 hours. I yanked out the wooden step, pounded in stakes and stacked the branches. I proudly sent pictures of my crude structure to Molly who said it reminded her of the story of the Three Little Pigs. The wolf would certainly make short work of blowing down my wattle fence but I’d found such pleasure in the creative process. And why go to the dump with those lovely straight branches?

When Molly was home for a short visit in February I recruited her to help me prune our 4 fruit trees. We mercilessly removed branches, some up to 5 feet long. My electric Saker handsaw made the project go quickly. The results were initially shocking. Had I butchered the trees? There were barely any branches left on the peach. It had to be done. In past years, I had not cut these dwarf trees back far enough and they were growing way too tall. So far the pear trees are happily full of blossoms and while the peaches still look traumatized, they are alive, bravely pushing out pink blossoms on the stubby limbs. Ultimately, I know that these harsh cuts were necessary if the trees are to thrive.

And so it is with me. I am working on doing the same in my life. What is necessary to live and thrive in this cycle of my life? These are my questions. I know there is much ‘pruning’ to be done. For a start, I tackle my garden. The to-do list sometimes feels overwhelming but ultimately, if I wake at 4 AM because of what needs to be done outside, it is with excitement. This week I spent some evenings after work clipping at the long hedge, pulling out dead wood from shrubs, yanking out ivy and weeds, picking up fallen twigs for kindling. I’m trying to grow grass again where the pipe was dug up in November so I hauled the hose out of the garage and now have the daily routine of filling the bird bath and spraying the seeded dirt while breathing deeply of the cold morning air. Most mornings, my exhales are no longer visible as it warms into spring.

And remember the branch that fell a few posts back? It’s still there. I need to get a new chain for my electric chain saw – so it’s disappearing a bit into the growing lawn. Nature will take care of things in its own way if I don’t manage to. I try to make sure that the ‘way’ is compatible, that I am doing right by the earth. I am content outside with the birds, the family of squirrels running through the oak and maple branches above me. Breathing fresh air after being in the house all winter, the sun warming my face – this is where I belong.

The universe is speaking to us with earthquakes, eclipses and wild storms. Reminding us that we are a part of something larger than ourselves. We need to pay attention. In the garden, on my knees in the dirt, I listen.

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!

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