Tag: nature

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!

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 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.

Raptors and Me

Birds of prey have been appearing and soaring and flapping around me so much this past week that I have to think they’re trying to make a point. I searched ‘significance of birds of prey’ on the internet (this site was the most interesting I found) and what’s been happening recently definitely feels meaningful. Tell me these encounters in my city of over 90,000 people aren’t wild!

Red Tailed Hawk near the river.

Yesterday, within an hours time from when I took Rufus on an early afternoon walk, I had 4 raptor sightings. I watched one hawk hovering in the same spot high up in the sky. A few blocks later I spotted another one sitting in a tree near the river. I filmed the video above catching this red tail hawk fly from one branch to another. About 10 minutes later, as I neared the house, I saw another huge hawk – more than 18 inches long sitting in the big sycamore tree across from our house. Shortly afterwards, Molly and I sat talking in the living room over coffee when her gaze shifted outside. Balanced atop our hedge was what we think is a sparrow hawk. We watched it eyeing the bird feeder and Molly spotted two squirrels flattened against the trunk of the maple tree looking very nervous. It hung around for minutes, moving on to a branch not far from the squirrels before moving on.

Sparrow Hawk (?) in the front yard.

Yesterday was incredible but not quite as amazing as my two experiences with another recent visitor(s?) earlier in the week.

It was still dark when I heard Rufus’s muffled bark summon me for a dawn walk. I got out of bed reluctantly and bundled up in a sweater over my pjs, a scarf looped around my neck, a wooly hat and a puffy coat. In the breezeway I shuffled out of my slippers into ugly old clogs I only wear for short dog walks. I opened the door and Rufus pulled, hoping to catch sight of a squirrel or the resident rabbit so he could bark and wake all the neighbors.

No barking this morning. We meandered down to the end of the driveway, me carefully stepping between rotting crabapples. The sky bloomed pink in the east and the blurry softness of grays and blacks of the small wooded area came into focus. I was mid-yawn as a large bird flapped by so close I could hear a whoosh of wings. It landed on a low branch not ten feet away from where it sat and stared at me.

Holding my breath, I stared back. An owl! Rufus was quiet. I whispered – hello you gorgeous creature, almost feeling an impulse to bow to its magnificence! My heart beating double pace with the thrill, I tried not to blink lest I miss a moment, my vision and mind still fuzzy in the dawn light. After what felt like minutes but still too short, the owl lifted off and flew a few yards to the mulberry tree, attention back to its hunt, head turned towards a scrubby corner of my yard. But for those few minutes it had stared directly at me. I felt like it wanted to tell me something. I watched until it lifted off and out of sight, marveling how such a large body can be moved through the air on wings.

The next day at dusk, still early by the clock, maybe 5 PM but in December that’s almost dark, Rufus pulled on the blanket I cuddled under with my book, an insistent request for a walk. So we repeated the ritual – this time dressed slightly more acceptably to be seen in public. We made it to the middle of the driveway when I looked to the left and froze. An owl was watching me. Again, I gazed back as if we were picking up on an unknown conversation. The same owl? I don’t know! Molly was working up in her room and I looked down long enough to text her to come out quickly. She quietly crept out of the house and joined me. The owl stared at us both and we whispered our wonder back and forth. She captured the photo above.

Meeting wildlife in my city neighborhood can feel like gentle prods into a spiritual place but these recent ones are like more substantial kicks! What am I missing? What should I know? Pay attention to? Face-to-face with owls twice in two days? And all those other raptors practically following me around? Magical and uncanny. I’ve had other creature encounters – like my morning meet-ups with a fox a few years ago that I wrote about here. And this is Molly’s second owl visit this year – her previous one in LA that I wrote about here. Maybe Neil is checking in on us again? I can’t yet report on any insight from these extraordinary visits other than an incredible joy and awe. What do you think? I’ll claim them as harbingers of a rich and wise new year. And I wish the same to you!

Dog and Other Walks

My daughter brought Rufus home for Thanksgiving and when she flies back to California later today, he will remain with me. Molly will return for Christmas and will bring him back to his west coast life in January. Meanwhile I have the pleasure and responsibility of taking care of this sweet dog.

Rufus smiling

While I haven’t missed his 6 AM demand that I take him out, I don’t hate being forced to see the sunrise. While he angles his leg towards the hedge to pee, I yawn and look up at the sky. This morning the sky was glorious – a deep navy blue in the west as night moved out and a glowing yellow of a new day in the east.

Getting outside also gets me out of my head when I am more inclined to retreat to full hibernation mode. Especially in winter, I get lazy and I don’t love the cold and there have already been days when I barely step out of the house. That’s not good. Even a short walk around the neighborhood gives me a spark of energy along with a fix of fresh oxygen. Having Rufus around with his multiple required outings each day, reminds me that I need to fan these sparks into flames.

Rather than letting the days simply pass, I want to savor each as precious. Even the physical movement of opening the door changes the energy, creates an atmospheric shift reminding me that I am part of something bigger than myself. Walking through the neighborhood, exchanging a few words with a neighbor or venturing down to the river to note the tide and maybe glimpse the great blue heron who seems to be wintering nearby, all give me a sense of well-being.

Stepping outdoors with no other intent than to follow this pup around in his wander, no matter how self absorbed I was minutes earlier, the wind against my cheek, light in my eyes, crunch of leaves under my feet, keeps me present.

Rufus surveying the estate

It’s not that I don’t go for walks when Rufus isn’t here. I’m pretty disciplined about getting up and out and there are advantages to doing this solo. While I like the purpose a dog brings, walks alone are easier. Without him, I walk at my own pace instead of being pulled along, stopping abruptly so he can sniff every few feet. Alone, I can drive the 10 minutes to the beach and walk where dogs aren’t allowed but the views are spectacular. I do like the freedom of not having a pet – but I miss the rituals, the weight of him on my lap, his sweet devotion.

No, I do not want to adopt another dog right now. But I do love having him visit and I do love him. But right now I am learning who this new me is that need only take care of myself and it’s very interesting and a little luxurious. Today it is rainy and Rufus, not a fan of getting wet, won’t want to venture further than the yard to do the necessary. I may just have to leave him at home and go for a walk by myself. (Or not!)

Pets or no pets?

Windows in My Life

Summer view

As if nature saw the calendar memo, autumn landed and the temperatures dropped. So I bought a few mums and closed my windows for the first time since May. They’re the old wooden kind that stick whether you’re trying to open or close them. Some need propping up with a piece of wood. Functionally, they all suck. Still, I’m not changing them.

Summer View 2

Window salespeople make a bee-line to my house to try and convince me to get their more energy efficient, very ugly plastic products. Religious proselytizers who knock on my door have a better chance of converting me – I love my old wooden windows that much. Most rooms have three windows giving my little cape an abundance of light and views. Downstairs I can look out at the garden and bird feeders and from upstairs, I live with the branches through the seasons. From the window at the top of the stairs I see the peach and pear trees and have a birds eye view of resident groundhogs as they snuffle around their estate.

Winter friends

These windows are drafty as hell – single glazed, some with cracked panes and at least one with a gap at the top no matter how hard I try shoving it closed. All need re-puttying. In another month or two I’ll be covering them with plastic vowing that next Spring, I’ll wash them. I can tell you right now, that’s probably a losing bet.

Bedroom light

The sun has an easy entry into all of my rooms. On a summer morning, the light that pours through my bedroom windows shines right through my closed lids. I like waking up like this – to the glowing gift of a day. With upcoming changing clocks nonsense, the hour I wake will soon be pitch dark. I can already feel a shift in my morning mood. Waking with the light brings me joy and I would not last long in a windowless cell. Just a skylight is not enough and no alley windows for me.

Winter tree view

My view of the trees is sweet and branches are a first marker of the seasons. But to have a view of water is a dream! A pond or a river or best yet, the sea. Always, at least – the sky. This is a requirement for any other real estate I ever move into. Plenty of windows. Quaint trullis and European cave houses so common in the hot regions of Italy, Spain, Portugal – with rooms with thick windowless walls like a tomb – do not tempt me. My happiness directly relates to being able to feel the strongest pulse of nature involving as many of my senses as possible. While my first choice is always to be able to step right outside, a window I can open is the next best thing.

Winter view

The first thing I do when I go downstairs in the morning, if it’s warm enough, is open the windows and the front door. In winter, I pull back the heavy curtains to let the light in. Always, I try and shrink the space between me and the natural world even if it means throwing another sweater or blanket on.

The sun porch wins for windows

My front porch gets a lot of use. Whenever I can, I like to sit out on the old glider to feel the air while I eat and drink. I like to read out there and take at least one nap each summer. The clothesline runs from the porch to the crabapple tree trunk and I hang my laundry until it freezes. The porch is where I welcome visitors and watch the birds and the neighbors go by. And when it rains or the mosquitos get bad, the sweet breezeway area off the kitchen is perfect. In the winter it becomes a quick pass through area to pull off boots and for over-wintering plants. There are plenty windows.

The kitchen sink.

While washing dishes, there’s an unexciting view of the garage but crane your head a little and look to the right to glimpse the great old oak tree. Raptors like to hang out there to watch for prey and when the leaves fall, there’s an easy view of them. I always plant my window boxes and they’re easy to water through the screens using the sink spray hose.

A summer eve.

Of course windows are also for looking in. When I’ve traveled alone in the past and been homesick and during unhappy times in my own home, I peered at and in (from a distance!) the windows of strangers, sure their lives were better than mine. As the day disappears and windows begin to glow, it’s easy to imagine the happy cozy lives within. And yet – I know that’s not always true. While the total number of happy days lived in this house now outnumber the troubled ones, there were tough times that the luminosity of these windows did not reveal. But now, in this home, what you see from outside is a life of serenity, sweetness and joy. With the approach of winter, my windows may darken at night but the warmth and love inside is bright and true – if a little drafty.

True answers only: How often do you wash your windows?

The Weekend Blizzard Report

Without a dog to take out I was able to spend all day yesterday inside. After writing that I thought I really should go out at least for a minute, so went on the porch to fill my lungs and looked around. I am glad I did. A glorious sunset was cracking through the grey of the day and the cold air felt exhilarating. I looked off across the yard, smelling, feeling, and hearing what was going on out here. For two days I had only been looking out my window missing the full experience of nature that I used to have regular doses of, even if just for a quick step-out with the dog. And listen to the wind!

Blizzard Sunset

The sound of wind through trees is one of my favorite things. Nature communicating loudly here – trees, wind – whose voice is whose? Together, they’re magnificent, if a little terrifying. I’m pretty sure the pine trees up in that patch (although not visible in the video) are the main noisemakers.

I’ve been checking out evergreens a lot recently. Maybe one day I’ll get to hear the wind whipping through the 3 foot White Pine I bought as our crooked Christmas tree this year. I felt quite virtuous buying a live tree but did not think through where I might plant it on my .24 acre already crowded with 8 very large trees and many more smaller ones including the 2 pear and 2 peach trees out back. I took this shot of the not yet planted, snow-logged darling from my bedroom window. If I’m still here in 12 years or so I will have a front seat to wind-through-pine tree concerts.

White Pine Tree Buried in Snow

I grew up in a 7th floor apartment in the Bronx but when I was still in elementary school, my parents bought a country house in the Berkshires that we’d drive up to on weekends and summers (my parents were NYC school teachers and had off). There was a White Pine tree on the property, perfect for climbing and I did so, sitting and daydreaming or sulking, depending on the day. I’d have to pick the stubborn sap off my hands, arms and legs for days. It was there in Canaan (yes, really) that I became a nature lover, learned to identify trees and birds and became a devotee of Euell Gibbons, fascinated by the idea of foraging my own food and living off the land. I regularly wandered into the woods behind the house saying I was ‘going up the hill!’ rather than my apartment call of ‘going downstairs!’ as I left the house. In these woods I learned to walk quietly, to listen and watch. I read nature books like crazy, including one on animal tracks. I was reminded of those days when I ventured out into the snow today.

Bird Tracks

Yesterday’s ‘red sky at night’ (sailor’s delight!) definitely delivered and while it’s cold, it’s bright and not a cloud in the sky. Coming down the stairs to make my tea this morning, I peeked out at the back deck. I often see creatures there, usually the big old groundhog, that I’ve resigned myself to being my tenant, will be sunning itself. Across the deck were tracks. After donning my boots and coat I went out and found proof of many little creatures who have been wandering around my estate. My friend who lives in the woods upstate recently set up a camera and captures some great footage of coyotes and a gorgeous bob cat passing through. Even in this city of more than 88,000 there have been coyote and bobcat sightings. But these prints are mostly wee ones of chipmunks and there’s obvious bird activity although there’s not much action at the feeder today. I suspect my feathered friends are still hunkered in their nests. I couldn’t identify whatever crossed and went under the deck but I doubt it’s groundhog who must still be asleep.

Rufus at the Airport

So yes, I miss having little Rufus around to force me into the world but I am adjusting. And somehow, because I have to be intentional in my outings and he’s not here to distract me with his cuteness, I think I pay better attention. And in case you’re wondering, while he hates flying, he is embracing his new life of peeing on palm trees and being utterly adored by Molly and her dear roommates in sunny California. And as any parent knows, when they’re happy, we’re happy. Although, I do consider fostering some sweet old dog…

Late Summer: Sunset and Moonrise Magic

moonrise kayaking

Yesterday Molly and I went for a sunset kayak — a stunning finale to a beautiful breezy day with a bittersweet hint of autumn. We are nearing the end of this season of light.

Low tide meant a short paddle would land us on a grassy sandbar that only surfaces for a few hours a day. We spotted the little empty beach and made straight for it. After ten minutes of paddling we pulled our boats onto the rocky shore, spread a towel and settled in for the sunset show. No sooner had we clinked glasses when a rowdy trio of adult boys pulled up in small motorboat. Without so much as a ‘are we disturbing you?’ they unloaded their cooler and a gigantic speaker blasting bad music feet from where we sat. Rolling our eyes at each other then giving them side-eyes they ignored, Molly and I rolled up our towel and left them to the shrinking patch.

Back on my boat, I imagined what might have happened with different company – thinking who might have angrily engaged the inconsiderate nincompoops escalating the experience and our blood pressure. And surprised that I did not. Instead I felt lucky to be with good-natured Molly, peacefully exiting while exchanging jokes and laughter about the rude interlopers. Then, we felt glad to be sitting on the water instead of beside it. As the sun fell beneath the horizon, a full moon cast another kind of glow on the Sound. Intoxicated by the cocktails we sipped from mason jars and from the stunning scene unfolding all around us, we let ourselves be jostled about by the incoming tide. The sky took over.

The sun left a skirt of pink fading in the West. I looked East and in what seemed only a blink, I felt a shift, a change to night and something more — another season, another state of being. So simple and quick I might have missed it — whatever that moment was — no more, no less than a sense of something. Slipping my paddle into the water, I positioned my kayak head-on into the trail of moonlight as if I might follow it to somewhere beyond the horizon. Jupiter and Saturn appeared twinkling like the stars they might be mistaken for.

Closer overhead, flocks of birds passed across a stretch of sky as if on a feather highway. First came half a dozen egrets, long legs dangling behind them. Following the egrets came a larger flock of frantically flapping terns. The birds silently followed each other into the deepening blue night and I felt a reverence in their flight as if they might feel as grateful for the day as I. Were they off to sleep on one of the islands? Turning my gaze back to the water, shimmering like giant fish scales or sequins of dark blues and blacks,  heaving beneath us in giant breaths. And at the center of it all, a hypnotizing path of moonlight.

Molly’s boat was too far away for us to talk to each other but we were both content in our own meditations. But as the flash of blue and red police lights from shore signaled the beach was closing, we called to each other — agreeing it was time to paddle back even as the pathway to the moon enticed me away.

I’d been on the fence about going kayaking – laziness and a little chill in the air as my excuse. What I would have missed! Out on the water I marvel, dream, think and wonder  — about life — the present, the future. Last night I considered where to be and how to live this (last!) leg of life. But do we get to curate our own lives, really? So much is a crapshoot, the luck of the draw or whatever version of God or not, one believes in. Having moments like last night are enough for me. In spite of – or maybe because of the goofs who drove us out into the water, their Lord of the Flies like howls always audible as we communed with the poetry of the night.

Combatting Worry-Creep

After a gift of gorgeous Spring days, Saturday morning and the weekend promises to be a little gloomy with only a dim haze of light where yesterday sparkled. I still mark weekends because I still have a job. Yes, our bookstores in the tristate area are closed but because I work primarily with educators and companies, I’m still in operation – my days safely at home on computer and phone doing business and sharing pep talks. Sometimes I am hit by worry-creep. I catch myself not breathing, my chest tightens until I remember things I am grateful for. Like for now I’m employed.

During my years of life in perpetual crisis-mode, I learned that focusing on gratitude calmed me. My heart goes out to all who are currently living with their own addiction or addict. Liquor stores in Connecticut remain open – considered essential and us social drinkers get to laugh appreciatively because who doesn’t need cocktail hour now? But there’s no such chuckle from someone who is seriously hooked. Recalling the recklessness I witnessed from my late partners, I am grateful not to be contending with an active addict in my life now. Strength and love to you if you are.

Back to things that calm the heart…

Having Molly here with me definitely tops the list. She was so ready to step away from her mom and out of this state where she’s spent her life. If her plan to land a job in NYC by February had worked out, well – it wouldn’t have been great right now. So yes, she’s not employed yet but she’s safe and healthy. We make each other laugh and bonus: she’s an amazing cook. Even if she were 6 and I was homeschooling her, corralling her away from friends and having to explain our current insanity – she would be my first delight and inspiration. But I won’t lie: I’m SO grateful to be living with this incredible adult version instead.

We love our home – although neither of us would win awards for best housekeeper and almost everything is shabby but not chic – we delight in this space. I look forward to getting my hands in the dirt, meanwhile adoring the cheery daffodils in our yard. We are lucky to have this home that I’ve managed to hang onto through all these years. The mortgage is almost down to what it originally was 24 years ago when I first bought it. – yes the bank will probably always own it. But thanks to refinancing (I have a great guy for this if you need one!) and my steady employment with blessed Barnes & Noble, we’ve weathered tough years in-place. We hope to continue to do that. I am very grateful to be quarantined in this sweet home – with a porch.

The list can go on. I’m sure you’ve got one too. Keep it handy. Of course I get anxious about this terrible illness disrupting our current grace-filled lives. I dread the thought of either of us, any loved one, any of you — losing our precious breath. But then — I breathe because I CAN — so deeply, filling my healthy lungs, expanding them as far as they will go and it feels positively joyful. I do this at night as I look at the stars – inhaling the cold night air while Rufus wanders the patchy lawn. I do it when I wake – stretching into the morning and gratefully taking a very deep, delicious breath.

How are you doing?

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