unweaving the nest

No Place Like Home

 

As published in the East Aurora Advertiser, June 2009

No matter how much I’m in love with East Aurora, every now and again I feel the urge to hit the road and wake up somewhere new. On Memorial Day weekend I drove myself to my other favorite place to be in the world: the Monadnock region of southern New Hampshire.

I admit I felt smug leaving behind our fair village in its current dust-bowl disarray. The place I visit in New Hampshire is as rural and green as anyplace else I’ve been. There’s a lack of commercial growth in those embracing, granite strewn hills that I find as quenching as fresh lemonade. Not a road-crew, nor even a billboard to be found along the serpentining roads. Each time I go there I make the 33 mile drive to a picturesque village where a friend lives, and it takes me about an hour to arrive; there’s just no express way to get anywhere. Everything about the place beckons me to slow down and savour. It’s just a very special place.

Long walks through fern-laced woods and granite boulders that make me want to stop and sit for a while, listen to the birds and the leaves rustling with the breeze, are one way I spend my solitude there. Once I encountered an elusive woodcock on a dirt road that leads to Thorndike Pond. With his tiny hunched body and his long nose pointing down to the ground, he looked like a little old man moseying along with his cane. It’s like that there for me; I experience things that are nothing short of magic. I take aimless drives through the countryside and find myself holding my breath when I turn a corner to espy a glinting blue lake, or catch a different view of the granite topped silhouette of Mount Monadnock.

I’ve made many local friends from my yearly visits there. People seem to keep their jobs: the young woman with jade-colored eyes and an ever-growing tattoo collection that works at the coffee shop in Marlborough, or the woman from New Jersey who came to run the historic inn because she loved it there so much she wanted to call it home. Every time I pack my car to leave, I get teary-eyed as I say goodbye to the grand mountain in my rearview mirror, the people I’ve come to know there, the landscape that feels like a warm embrace. It feels like leaving home.

As I drove into East Aurora on that Tuesday evening, I was saddened by the sights of our torn up Main Street. I felt like turning right around and heading back to Wyoming County to stay one more night in someplace quiet and green. Then something caught my eye; a friend I have not seen in weeks was walking her dog down Main amidst the rubble. And look! There was that couple I have seen taking their own evening walk down Main for years now. Many familiars were out and about enjoying the night despite the effort it takes to avoid the trenches and gravel dust. It struck me, what I love most about where I live; sure it’s as beautiful a spot as any on earth, but it’s the people, the ones I call my friends as well the faces I know from being here for over two decades, that make it home sweet home.

The Gift of a Letter

 

As published in the East Aurora Advertiser, May 2009

 

“What a lot we lost when we stopped writing letters. You can't reread a phone call.”  Liz Carpenter

What a lot we’ve lost, indeed. With newspapers going out of print and the decline of postal mail, sometimes I wonder if we’ll have any tangible written record of our existence when my grandchildren are adults. I have loved writing and receiving letters throughout my life, and while I appreciate the advent of email and use it every day to communicate with friends and family all over the world, it just isn’t the same as a handwritten note delivered door-to-door.

While you can reread an email, once deleted they will be lost forever unless you take the time to print them. How many are really worth the paper and ink? It seems most of them are not unlike the “instant message,” without much thought, sometimes even impulsive, and there is something to waiting the days for a letter to be received and returned. I give more consideration to what I say when I write a letter; I’ve sent some emails that I have regretted the moment I clicked the send button. Sure, I’ve sent some letters I might regret, but the process alone requires more attention—I am less likely to send something in haste.

Consider the historical aspect. What would we know of the human side of our history without the personal correspondence of the men and women who lived it? Think of those letters written by Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln; they give us real insight into the minds and lives of the men who shaped our country, things we would have never learned from just the facts.

Some of the most fascinating books I’ve read are compilations of personal letters. Those between Henry Miller and Anais Nin not only give us the intricacies of a lifelong love affair, but also the inner scoop on literary life of the 1930’s. And what about our own family histories? I can’t see passing our correspondence on a “disk” to future generations. What a shame to not hold the handwriting of our ancestors in our own hands to read again and again. Letters contain the human side of things—the day to day of what came before us.

There are not nearly as many letters passing through my mailbox these days. I’d like to change that, set a goal for myself of one letter sent a day. I’ve stocked up on paper and envelopes, “forever” stamps. I like to use a fountain pen when I write, and sometimes I’ll even tuck in a small treasure that I found on a walk at Knox Farm. Friends who are living in those southern states that don’t have the beauty of a Western New York fall love to receive a bright red maple leaf in early October, but what they like most is holding in their hands a little slice of my life here—and I always eagerly await a crisp envelope containing a bit of their own. These days it seems like I wait far too long. Even if I do get a daily email, it is not nearly as meaningful as the news that comes when their hand is put to page.

 

comfort in a bowl

There a few things that my daughter asks for now and again that I can never refuse. One is for me to make her favourite soup. When my kids were little it was sometimes a struggle to get them to eat their veggies, which is no doubt a familiar plight for all parents now and again. I tried lots of tactics, but one that seemed to work was re-naming plain old vegetable soup after one of our most loved storybooks: Peter Rabbit. 

It's a rainy day here in Western New York and my girl has been a little out of sorts lately with the pressure of finishing up her senior year, getting her driver's license, thinking about a summer job and making decisions about her next steps in her education. And of course there is the senior prom and all that entails, too. I try to keep my weeknight evenings quiet and here at home with her, and sometimes my work schedule makes it hard to be together for any kind of proper dinner...so it's good to have something that she loves ready for us to share when I work late now and then. If you ask her what she wants for dinner it is very likely she will answer "Peter Rabbit Soup." And it's perfect for these darker, cooler wet days we seem to have in these parts every spring. 

I made it this morning and it looked so pretty in the bowl that I ladled it into for my lunch. I was inspired to take a photo and share the way to make it. It not only tastes yummy, but it's pretty good for you, too. It's different every time, depending on what veggies we have, but it's always comfort in a bowl.

Peter Rabbit Soup (or sometimes..."Look What Farmer McGregor Dug Up in the Garden" Soup)

Chop a couple of handfuls of any veggies you have into bite-sized pieces. In a heavy soup pot, heat a big tablespoon of butter and the same amount of lovely green olive oil. If you have veggies that like to be sauteed (onions or celery, zucchini, stuff like that) then give them a couple of minutes in the pot. Fill the pot with about 9 cups of spring water and then put the rest of the veggies in. I like the flavour and colour of Rapunzel brand veggie bouillon cubes (with sea salt and herbes) and I use 4 cubes per 9 cups of water. Let the soup simmer for about 20 minutes before adding a handful of finely chopped fresh herbes...whatever you like. Today I had parsley, so that's what it got...but any herbes you like are wonderful. Turn off the soup so the veggies don't overcook and then boil some tiny pasta, like ditalini or orzo, or even some grains like brown rice or barley, and then keep them aside to add in when you eat it. If you cook the grains or pasta in the soup and you don't eat it all right away they just get mushy. And of course sometimes you might not want anything but the veggies anyways.

So there you go... Peter Rabbit Soup, lifetime favourite of my favourite girl.

xo

why is happiness unforgivable?

 I recently enjoyed a memoir by the poet, Donald Hall, called Life Work. The main theme of the book is work, in all of its nuances. There are many vignettes of his grandparents' work on their farm in New Hampshire, his father's dairy business, his childhood spent between suburban and rural life, and of course of his own work as a man of letters, but there is one sentence that has stuck with me and that has me picking the book up again and again to reread the chapter that contains it. 

When talking about the great pleasure he finds in his work on the best days, he stops and asks "Why is happiness unforgivable?" My first reaction was, "Is it? Really?" He was talking about when a more melancholy reader might pick up his book, and say "Enough already! My life sucks! Yours should, too," at least that is how I understood it the first time through, but I didn't feel that way at all, and I can be as melancholy as the next gal. Hey, if someone is happy, I'm happy for them. If they are fulfilled by a day's or even a lifetime's work, that's just fine by me. Because I know, I KNOW, that even the most cheerful, most successful among us has plenty of their own moments of glumness.

Happiness, like the grey smoke of incense, is fleeting. It lingers just long enough to fill our souls with ample sweetness to know that it's a good idea to carry on. Life, by nature, is hard. If we come upon any kind of happiness it should be relished...either our own or that of others. The more I thought about Hall's question, the more I realized that very often it is the happiness of others that helps to nurture my own moments of contentment. Just think, at any given moment there might be hundreds of happy people within walking distance of your home. ;) Even the thought of it can cajole a smile, if I allow it.

I'm not sure why Donald Hall's sentence struck me so hard. Maybe it's because I didn't believe he really felt that way. His own life has been brim with struggles and sorrows, more than anyone should have to bear, and yet he has also written about knowing profound joy through his work, through his second marriage, through his children and grandchildren. He is one man who seems to know what it means when the philosophers preach "You can't know joy unless you know sorrow." I guess it made me think that he doesn't have a lot of faith in his readers if he didn't trust them enough to know that he has a right to claim his deep happiness in his work. He's earned it. It gives me great hope, as another human being forging her way through life, to see that people, no matter how grave things can get, have the spirit to carry on...and even be happy. Happiness is not unforgivable. What would be unforgivable is to not give it its due praise. 

unexpected gifts

Hello out there...it's been a while. Since I posted last I've had my final trip to the doctor until my next surgery in July, I have gone back to work, and I have finished and sent out three poems into the big wide world. And there have been other things occupying my days and nights..but that is not what I am here to write about today. 

The photo above was taken a week or so ago on a lazy morning by the pond at the farm next door. It's a special spot for me, kind of unruly, and that tree is like a touchstone for days when nothing seems quite touchable. Some days I see it as a praying tree, on its knees. Other days it's as thirsty as I am and I see it bow to drink its fill. And some days it's as broken as can be, prostrate and weeping, too heavy with despair to get back on its feet. On those days I talk to it about my own despair, and I can sometimes see in the mirror of pond a kind spirit reaching its many hands up to keep the tree's tired limbs above water. If I'm lucky, before I leave for home I realize that if nothing else the ground beneath me will support me...but really what I know is that the people in my life that I love and that love me are the real support.

This morning I had an unexpected visit from one of those people and it was a beautiful beginning to my day. And when she left I had another unexpected gift, an email from a reader far away thanking me for the words I write here and sharing some of her own very personal rays of light that get her through the darkness. What a validating thing it is to receive the grace of another spirit. Nourishing and generous with hope and kindness. 

One of the things she said in her email reminded me of one of the lessons I have learned from having cancer. The lightning strike. I have had other lightning strikes in my life; the most profound of them was when my first son was born so sick and died three days later. Things can storm into your life with hardly a notice at all. Sometimes they are good things, but often they are not. It's the things that are not so good that are worth the most, it seems. The things that hold us up for measure...that shock us into realizing that we are only very human after all. And being human means being fallible, fragile, and a living breathing miracle as extinguishable as the ant that finds itself under your careless shoe. 

Being alive on this earth is a miracle and a gift. A daily gift. And once the lightning has struck, even if it takes several strikes, it tends to make one realize the vulnerability and preciousness of what it really means to be alive. What I am trying to say is that most of the time I have a deeper appreciation for my singular life and how it is no less or no more important that the life of any other plant, animal or mineral on this earth. It allows me to every now and again really understand that there is no such thing as "why me?" Good and bad will fall on every living thing, and at any given time. The ant toils to build its hill only to have it stepped on or even kicked to dust by a curious child...and then it gets right back to work, building it again. Being alive means work. Being human means we are at a disadvantage next to all other living things...because being human means we have the ability of discernment, and sometimes that means we choose to give up. An ant would never choose to give up. The grass in the field will die every year and will never have the choice of whether it desires to spend all that energy and time to grow tall again. The garden spider will weave again and again, despite a heavy rain or the careless shears of the gardener which cuts the stalks that spider had built upon. 

Shit happens. Nothing is perfect. If you are lucky enough to be alive in this world you will sooner or later take a fall. And who knows why some will fall harder and more often than others. It is those people, the ones who keep on getting up, that fill my heart with awe and respect. They are the salt of the earth that bring me thirst enough to find water in the driest desert. They make anything seem possible. 

I have always believed in silver linings, but not as much as I have learned to believe in the beauty of sheer determination to get up and carry on. Not nearly as much as I believe in the grace of having those special people in our lives, those we know intimately and even those we have never seen face to face, that help us to see it through.

(Thank you, Siobhan, for your email this morning. It meant a great deal to me.)

holding it up to the light

Before you read any further, may I ask you to read THIS? While you are there, listen to it, too.

Did you like it? 

It's what I want to write about today, on the first day of April, National Poetry Month. Now, I am by no means an authority on poetry, and these thoughts are very personal to me. They come from my love for it, not from my knowledge, which is novice at best. Another poet or lover of poems, or scholar of poetry may have a completely different view. So be it. These musings are important to me, and solely my own.

So often, almost always actually, when I am speaking with someone other than a poet about poetry, the same thing comes up right away, "I don't understand poetry. It's pretty and all, but it seems pointless to read it if I can't even understand what the writer is trying to say."

I can understand that sentiment, I really can. But the thing is...it doesn't matter as much what the poet is trying  to say any more than it matters which recipe the cook uses to make the soup. If it tastes good, if it makes you feel satisfied and nourished...that's all that matters. Maybe that is not the best analogy, because of course it MATTERS, but I think you can get what I'm trying to say: a poem is a wish to connect with others, on a deep level that we may not ever understand, about inward things. Things that have no words to stand up for them or bring them to light...things that can't be named or held in your hands. And a poet uses images to evoke those feelings in us. A good poem has clear images, concrete images, even if it does not have a clear narrative story for us to follow along with. If you read or hear a poem and you come out the other end having your senses engaged by clear images...it is the feelings that those images evoke in YOU personally that make poetry what it is. It's an individual experience, as well as a universal experience, and it has been the soul food for humans since long before any other form of literature. Poetry feeds us. And from the looks of sales of poems in this country, we must be getting pretty near starving. (That is a topic for another day)

Poetry is also a way to celebrate the intricacies of the world: the beautiful and the ugly, the joyful and the sorrowful. Poets observe the world around them closely and reveal the every day particulars in ways that may startle us, or soothe us. In ways we may have never seen or considered before. Poetry makes us pay closer attention and feel more fully alive. Metaphor and simile, meter, cadence, and all of the tools of craft are used by the poet to make us feel something. Perhaps to make us question something, or look closer at ourselves and the world around us. It asks of us to take a moment of stillness and to allow for wonder. 

Do we need to understand something in order to feel it? In order to fully experience it? I don't believe so. But there is a comfort in poetry when nothing else seems to bring clarity. Maybe it is just taking the time to breathe and feel. To really pay attention. 

Reading a poem can be like a deep breath in and a long, soft exhale out. The images of outward things that form in me become symbols and road maps to the inward things I so often have trouble expressing or even beginning to understand. But somehow, when I read a good poem at the right time, I am mysteriously renewed. Changed.

If you are not already a reader of poems I'd like to challenge you to give it a try. And don't try to decipher all those words and lines and stanzas. Read it quietly to yourself, and then read it aloud. Poems need to be read aloud. Read it a couple of times and put it away to read again in a few days. Let the images in the poem form in your mind and let your body feel them and smell them, taste them and hear them. And let it be just that. Sometimes it takes a while to find a poet that really stirs the feelings in us. I suggest starting with Billy Collins if you appreciate a humourous, yet profound approach to life; Mary Oliver if you look to the natural world for illumination and comfort; or Jane Kenyon if you tend to lean towards the spiritual side of things. There are so many wonderful poets to explore, and these are just three that top my own list. You can Google  their names and find some of their work on-line. For a greater variety, you can also subscribe to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac for a daily poem in your inbox, or to the daily poem email from Poets.org, which also has wonderful resources on discovering poetry in general. Garrison Keillor also has a wonderful anthology of poems that is a perfect place to start exploring different poets.

If you do take the time to discover poetry, I would like to know about your experience. As someone who counts on poems as much as I count on air at times, it saddens me that we as a culture do not give poets a place of importance on our night stands or bookshelves, or in our daily lives, like we used to. It also makes me happy to share what I love about it with others and to hear about how they fall in love with it, too.