Cheshire Cat Sunflower

running on planet zephyr

2011-11-27T18:46:00.006-05:00

Last month, we adopted a puppy through Labs 4 Rescue. These folks take the adoption process very seriously, and before adoption is final, prospective dog families must pass the “home visit” interview. Labs, we are reminded, are energetic dogs. According to some sources, Labs, more than any other breed, often end up in shelters, because unsuspecting new owners, choosing Labs based on their reputation as a family-friendly and highly trainable breed, are unprepared for the overabundance of energy and exercise requirements. The interviewer who visited our home was thrilled to hear that we had already owned a Lab, and were therefore hip to the fact that a quiet quarter mile walk does little to appease a 6-month-old pup. Having lost my favorite running partner, Sasha, last June, I was looking for a new companion on the trails, so a Lab suited my purpose.

But instead of schooling me in breathless tempo runs, Zephyr has reminded me of the spiritual and psychological benefits of slowing down. On our first couple of trail runs, when he stopped to sniff yet another deer pellet or taste his thirty-eighth pinecone, I became frustrated. I looked at my watch, wondered how I would make up for the lost time. And then, last week, running in torrential rain, water on the trail up to my ankles, Zephyr stopped to examine a Great Blue Heron perched on a rock in the water. I had been running alongside the trail for at least a mile, but my mind was on the coffee waiting to be brewed, on the kids waiting to be fed, on the dishes waiting to be washed. When Zephyr stopped (and I nearly tripped over him), I stopped too, and it wasn’t the Heron that held my attention (I’d seen him there before), but the sound of the brook. It wasn’t murmuring, as it usually was; it was bellowing like a mountain river. Our tranquil little stream had become, overnight, honest-to-goodness white water. I marveled at the momentary wildness of our usually tame local forest.

Today, during Sunday services at the Unitarian Society http://usnh.org/,one of our congregation read a passage from Thich Nhat Hanh, one I had read before, about mindful dish washing. If, when we wash dishes, we are only thinking about the cup of tea that awaits us afterward, then we aren’t really washing dishes. If, however, we wash dishes to wash dishes, then we are paying attention. If we can’t pay attention to the dishes in that moment, then it’s likely we won’t be able to truly enjoy the cup of tea that follows, because as we sip before the fire, we will be elsewhere—in our offices, in our checkbooks, in our sorrows. But if we wash the dishes purposefully, mindfully, then we will be present in the moments that follow as well.

When I returned from my run, I brought the wild water with me in my hair, in my sneakers, and on my dog. And then I stripped off my wet clothing, changed, and entered the next moment. In the kitchen that had been clamoring for my attention an hour earlier, the coffee had already been brewed, the kids had fed themselves, and Bryan was putting the dishes in the rack. Zephyr, having shaken off the rain, was chewing on a piece of bark in front of the fire, thinking only as far ahead as the next bite.

the smile on a dog

2011-06-09T13:36:00.003-04:00

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid
and self-contain’d.
I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition.
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of
owning things.
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands
of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

--Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

One of the most beautiful sections in Milan Kundera’s brilliant novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, is “Karenin’s Smile,” in which the protagonists, Tereza and Tomas (played by Juliette Binoche and Daniel Day-Lewis in the film version), are confronted with a terminal illness diagnosis for their dog, Karenin, and must decide which course to take. In the chapters that comprise this section, Kundera reflects, mostly through the character of Tereza, on the differences between our relationships with animals and our relationships with each other:

. . . the love that tied her [Tereza] to Karenin was better than the love between her and Tomas. Better, not bigger. . . .
It is a completely selfless love: Tereza did not want anything of Karenin; she did not ever ask him to love her back. Nor had she ever asked herself the questions that plague human couples: Does he love me? Does he love anyone more than me? Does he love me more than I love him? Perhaps all the questions we ask of love, to measure, test, probe, and save it have the additional effect of cutting it short. (Kundera 297)

I thought about Karenin yesterday after receiving a similar diagnosis for our own dog, Sasha, who has been suffering good-naturedly for the last several months. Though she has been plagued by arthritis for the last couple of years, she has managed to stay, up until about a month ago, relatively active, and healthy aside from her aching joints, which cause her to groan when the weather is heavy. Though it was clear she would never again be able to join the running group, she has been able to hike, swim, and accompany us on our neighborhood walks. And, true to Lab form, her appetite never wavered, not until last month. That’s when we knew things were changing. One morning she did not come down for breakfast, not even when she heard the sound of the top spinning off of her food container, nor when she heard the rattle of kibbles hitting the metal bowl. When it was time to feed her dinner, her bowl was still half-full of breakfast. I offered her a banana slice, a favorite treat, as an appetizer; she sniffed it and turned away. My heart sank.

Yesterday was ostensibly a routine visit to the vet. It was time for her rabies vaccine. Of course, I brought my concerns with me, but I barely had time to raise them before the vet had decided that Sasha’s condition was “not good.” Her gums were pale, her stomach inflamed, her heartbeat irregular. She had lost almost ten pounds (and she was already quite thin for a Lab). They kept her at the vet for some tests, but I did not need results to know that Sasha was preparing for her next journey.

The results: enlarged lymph nodes, a big one in her chest. Enlarged pancreas. Blood cell count showed likely evidence of lymphoma. We could send her for an ultrasound, then to an oncologist, and then on to other specialists, or we could swallow hard, accept that she had lived a rich and active life, and send her off with love and memories. So, with very heavy hearts, we have chosen the latter.

I’ve said good-bye to pets before, and it’s always painful, but Sasha and I have been together for over ten years. She arrived when I was at graduate school in Vermont, and though I told Bryan he would have to assume the bulk of the responsibility for her while I was finishing up my degree, I could never stand being away from her; as a result, we shared custody, and she spent her first few months as our puppy living in two states. She snoozed on my lap while I read for my Comps exam. She hung on the ears of my roommate’s 115-pound Great Dane/Chocolate Lab mix, Perry. She explored the spur trails and higher peaks of the Green Mountains.

When Bryan and I got married, we spent two months on the road, going out West, up through Canada to Alaska, and back down through the Canadian Rockies and into Washington, Oregon, and Colorado. Sasha was on the trip, and was even present at our wedding ceremony on the summit of Flattop Mountain, just outside of Anchorage (though she did try to sneak off with a trail runner who came through).

Her adjustment to Dylan’s arrival took some time, and in the early days she did express her disapproval at having been usurped, but she later grew to tolerate the kids, especially now that both are able to toss her a ball (she still brings the ball back to one of us, rather than to either of the kids, presumably as a way of stating that, though she has accepted them as roommates, they will never be her masters).

Still, her happiest days are in the yard, chewing on grass, sniffing out a dead animal, chasing anything we can throw. Though we’d like to think she enjoyed the road trip, I suspect she would have been just as pleased—perhaps more so—to run after a Frisbee right here in Cheshire.

If Karenin had been a person instead of a dog, he would surely have long since said to Tereza,
“Look, I’m sick and tired of carrying that roll in my mouth every day. Can’t you come up with
something different? And therein lies the whole of man’s plight. Human time does not turn in a
circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing
for repetition. (Kundera 298)

Dogs thrive on routine, and a Lab will suffer through just about any amount of pain for the sake of a walk. I have sometimes worried that, left to her own devices, Sasha would literally retrieve until she keeled over from cardiac arrest. In fact, she has a kink in her tail that is a testament either to her stamina or her foolishness. At our wedding party, which took place on Lake Spofford in New Hampshire, the children of our friends threw tennis balls and sticks into the water for Sasha to chase. When dogs swim, they use their tails as rudders, and at the end of the day, Sasha’s tail hung limp and was sore to the touch. The next day she could lift it, but just slightly. When it finally healed, it stood at a crooked arch, and so it remains. But she’d probably do it all over again. Tomorrow.

Last night, we gave the bad news to the kids. Dylan was sad but inquisitive, as is his nature. Lexi was more visibly upset. She has experienced death before, having lost both of her beloved grandfathers, but the frightening notion of death itself upsets her greatly. It’s the “f” word—“forever”—that sends her into a spin. I made the mistake of using the tired euphemism, “putting her to sleep,” when explaining the process of euthanasia. I thought she had understood (though why I would make that assumption, I’m not sure); later she came to me and said, “Mom, Dylan said we’re going to have to say goodbye to Sasha forever.”

I took her hands and said, “We are, honey. It’s time for Sasha to go on to a place where she doesn’t have to feel any more pain.”

And she lost it. When she woke up this morning, she started all over again. I showed her pictures of Sasha doing all of the things that make her happy: chewing, hiking, swimming, sleeping on our bed. I told her we’ll sprinkle her ashes in her favorite places: Brooksvale Park in Hamden; Camel’s Hump in Vermont; Flattop Mountain in Anchorage. She will literally become a part of her favorite trails. We’ll save a little for our backyard, of course.

In Kundera’s novel, Tomas, being a doctor, decides to euthanize Karenin himself, so that Karenin might die in the comfort of his country home, surrounded by his family. “Assuming the role of Death is a terrifying thing. Tomas insisted that he would not give the injection himself; he would have the vet come and do it. But then he realized that he could grant Karenin a privilege forbidden to humans: Death would come for him in the guise of his loved ones”(Kundera 299-300). When Karenin sees Tomas enter the room, he gives a weak wag of his tail. “Look,” Tereza says through her tears, “He’s still smiling”(299).

Bryan and I have yet to work out the logistics of what happens next, but we do know we want her here, at home, if at all possible, perhaps on her lumpy old bed in front of the fireplace. I’m looking at that bed now, at its ridges and wrinkles and stains. Sasha spends most of her time in the bathroom now, preferring cool tile to foam cushion. She doesn’t greet us at the door anymore, but I hear her tail thump against the floor when I enter, and I know that, in spite of her discomfort, she is happy.

But most of all: No one can give anyone else the gift of the idyll; only an animal can do so, because only animals were not expelled from Paradise. The love between dog and man is idyllic. (Kundera 298)

big girl tomboy

2011-05-19T21:54:00.003-04:00

There’s just something about mud.

In creative writing classes, whenever I would be issued a prompt to write about nature, or to give a positive spin to something usually seen as dreary, I would always go back to mud: sloppy trail runs; mountain bike rides through soft, wet soil; hiking in the pouring rain and getting to camp with dirt-speckled calves. It’s no wonder that luxury spas offer mud baths: mud is rejuvenating. Getting dirty makes me feel grounded—pun intended.

Like most folks my age, I spent a good portion of my early childhood making mud pies. Kids are instinctively drawn to soil, and will find a murky puddle on the driest patch of land. A couple of months ago, I went with my family to a maple sugar event at Brooksvale Park, and while the ranger was giving a demo in the sugar shack, a toddler reveled in a mud puddle behind us: first standing, then sitting and splashing, then rolling. I mean really rolling. Many of the faces present expressed horror, but the child’s mom stood calmly off to the side, half-listening to the lecture, bemused and utterly unconcerned. I was fascinated: I was enjoying the show, but had it been my own child, I would probably have worried about what the other parents would think, much as I hate to admit it. When the sugar expo was over and it was time for maple syrup over ice cream, the mom pulled a trash bag out of her purse, exchanged the boy’s soiled jacket and snowpants for a new shirt and fresh pair of sweats, and the two went merrily on their way. I made a mental note to get this woman’s number.

I don’t make mud pies anymore, but I still find all kinds of ways to play in the mud, preferably with friends. An April trail run almost always ends in soggy shoes and a communal hose-down. Just yesterday, I came home from a wet bike ride to find my face covered in brown freckles. Even my eyelashes were spotted. Today, I weeded moist onion beds at Boulder Knoll farm, and in order to keep my 40-year-old knees from groaning, I had to keep switching position, so that, at one point, I was practically lying on my side in the mud, much to the amusement of another volunteer, Starla, who asked if my rust-colored Carhaarts had started out as white. When I had finished for the day, I was at least two pounds heavier, as the mud clung to my gloves, my soles, even the tendrils of hair that had escaped from my cap. Just like a day at the spa.

Truth be told, it’s harder to get out of bed when it’s raining, and I would almost always take a crisp autumn day over a soppy spring morning. But it is a hell of a lot of fun to run a-muck.

parsnip therapy

2011-04-07T23:09:00.003-04:00

Today was my first day of work on Boulder Knoll Farm. After having followed the farm’s CSA (Crop Share Association) program since its inception three years ago, Bryan and I finally decided to join. Our own vegetable garden has, for the past few years, been an exercise in frustration: each spring we turn the soil, clear the beds, plant the seeds, fix the fence, wait for the harvest, and then watch as our beans, peas, tomatoes, and other vegetables and herbs are ravaged by deer, moles, Japanese beetles, and a host of other insects and mammals.

So this year we decided to learn something about successful gardening by participating in a work-intensive CSA program. In exchange for 30 hours of work on the farm, and a small sum of money, we will take home a share of the crops every few weeks from June until October. Even more exciting than the booty, however, is the opportunity to participate in a community agricultural program. Today, before starting work, I looked at the rows of empty beds, at the folks working in various corners of the field, and thought about how great it would be to document, day by day, the subtle changes, changes wrought, in large part, by the hands of a small group of dedicated workers.

But before that, I was sitting in my dining room, reading freshman essays and sighing anxiously, working my way through the paper pile and pausing to consider other piles—laundry, dishes, clothes to be sorted through for spring. I looked at the clock and swore, wishing I hadn’t chosen today—a day I really needed to use for catching up on work—to volunteer on the farm.

At 11:20, I headed over to the farm. My first task was to harvest some parsnips that had “over-wintered.” I had help from two other women, both of whom were delighted by the surprise crop of vegetables. Who knew we’d take home a share on day one? Even more amazing was the fact that these hearty roots had survived the weight of this year’s unusually harsh winter. So many of them, too. And they hadn’t just survived; they had thrived! I dug the pitchfork into the ground, and it took all of my weight to break the roots from the dirt. They clung to the soil, secure in their subterranean shelter. I reached down and pulled, gently but firmly, and was surprised by the girth of these hearty vegetables. The other workers were awestruck, and at the end of a half an hour, we had filled a laundry tub with parsnips. We all agreed that this was a positive omen: an unexpected harvest on the first official day of the season.

I spent the next ninety minutes lopping dead flower stems and pulling out roots to make way for new seeds. It wasn’t intellectual work, and it wasn’t overly physical, but there was a supreme satisfaction in pausing to look at what I was able to accomplish in a relatively short amount of time. In my own work, my school work, there is rarely a sense of completion. I hack away, perpetually behind in my grading, my reading, my prep, and always feeling as though I could be doing more, or doing something better. On the farm, my task was simple, and I could easily set a reasonable goal. Pull parsnips. Clear four beds. Dump the debris in the compost pile. Write the time in the log.

“This is a wonderful place,” said one of the other workers who passed by me as I pulled roots. “It’s amazing to stand here and look at these fields and know that, in three months, everything will have blossomed as a result of our work.”

Though he was right, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead at the moment. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything, in fact. The sun was dancing in and out of the clouds, my fingernails were dirtier than they had ever been, and the work pile on my dining room table was, for the moment, a matter of little consequence.

Roasted parsnips, anyone?

what to do, what to do

2011-03-31T16:13:00.002-04:00

Eating maple syrup and craving moose stew.

For years, I've been looking ahead to 40, thinking of it as an excuse--or an opportunity--to make a return trip to Alaska for one of two butt-kicking races: either the Equinox Marathon, which takes place in Fairbanks in September, or the Lost Lake Run, a 17-mile trail run just south of Anchorage. This race is run in August, which makes it more appealing, as I will still be on summer break and won't have to find coverage for my classes.

One of my New Year's Resolutions this year is To Act. I've spent enough time looking at thresholds that need repair, a barn that needs de-cluttering, and stories that need finishing. But I'm not sure if a trip to Alaska constitutes action or caprice. Or whether it matters if it's one or the other.

Last month, round trip airfare was in the 400's. I almost pulled the trigger (or pressed the button, as it were). I did not. Now we are into the 500's, and with oil prices rising, I don't see fares going down any time soon.

If I were to go, I would have child care (Mom) and places to stay (friends, campground).

And 40 has arrived.

What to do, what to do.

still here. ish.

2011-02-03T22:33:00.003-05:00

After the fervent posting of December, followed by the loud silence of January, friends and family ask, where are you?

Many times since starting this blog in 2007(?) I have wrestled with whether or not writing "publicly" is a productive use of my writing time. Sometimes it seems it is. And sometimes not so much. And so I have found myself turning to my journal again, and it's been comforting for the moment. I'm less inhibited on those pages, and less worried about whether my writing is really the fulfillment of some kind of egomania.

And yet, here I am, letting you know where I am. Old habits. . . .

Oh, and I'm also writing about running at: tricia-5050.blogspot.com. I'm re-vamping that site to make it more interactive. I'm envisioning a runner's forum. Join us.

tranquility to-do list

2010-12-28T20:49:00.002-05:00

Reverb 10 Prompt of the Day: Achieve. What’s the thing you most want to achieve next year? How do you imagine you’ll feel when you get it? Free? Happy? Complete? Blissful? Write that feeling down. Then, brainstorm 10 things you can do, or 10 new thoughts you can think, in order to experience that feeling today.(Author: Tara Sophia Mohr)

Serenity. I don’t pretend to believe that I will achieve the sort of tranquility one finds in the expressions of, say, the woman sitting cross-legged on the cover of Yoga magazine. But I do want to achieve the serenity that comes from having achieved some of the other goals I’ve discussed in recent blogs: community; organization; self-assuredness; inspiration and discipline in my work.

I don’t expect that achieving a state of psychological quietude will mean that I will be serenely self-possessed no matter what the situation. But I do believe that it’s possible to achieve an inner balance that allows that serenity to radiate even in the most chaotic moments—what my friend Lori and I like to call our fits of “Kabuki Joan,” after the famous “coat hanger” scene in “Mommie Dearest.”

So, 10 things/thoughts with an eye toward achievable serenity:

1. Pause at about 4:30 in the afternoon to check out the sky.
2. Play music.
3. Yawp (figuratively, I mean). Let kids yawp.
4. Stop looking at the dust on the mantle.
5. Peppermint tea.
6. Come up with a Laundry Plan. One load a day?
7. Prioritize sleep.
8. Eat fresh snow with maple syrup.
9. Stop talking and listen: to the kids, to other people’s stories. To the quiet.
10. Slow down the post-dinner, pre-bedtime blitz.

These are random and in no particular order. I have a whole year to w

ordinary joy

2010-12-27T22:31:00.003-05:00

Reberb writing prompt of the day: Ordinary Joy. Our most profound joy is often experienced during ordinary moments. What was one of your most joyful ordinary moments this year? (Author: Brené Brown)

I find this expression—“ordinary joy”—to be an apt summary of my life in 2010. I need look no further than this month’s collection of blog posts to see that I am more at peace with myself, with my situation, and with my setting than I have been in recent years. Not quite accepting, definitely not resigned, but able to find joy in the ordinary: a Tuesday trail run, an autumn afternoon at the park, an impromptu mountain bike ride.

I’m not sure that one moment stands out as the most ordinarily joyful (or joyfully ordinary), but here are a few highlights:

 Watching the kids “mountain bike” for the first time, and witnessing their unabashed elation as they negotiated rocks and roots on tiny tires.

 Pictionary Death Match with Bryan, Mom, Kaytie, and Alex. Laughing until my throat hurt and my eyes burned at the discovery, after 35 years, that when my uncle called his sisters “fey,” he was not implying that they were whimsical or fairlylike, but was actually a comparing them to a neighbor—“Faye”—who was, to use an Eastern Massachusetts term, “retahded.”

 Drinking tea with Bryan in the Adirondack chairs while the kids swung on the new tree swing.

 Doing the Tuesday crossword in the glow of the first woodstove fire of the season.

Essayist Susan Griffin writes that “the ordinary is of course never ordinary.” What a dazzling array of images lies behind these words. We tend to think of the ordinary as something to be met with dread, and our avoidance of the ordinary is linked, I believe, to our inability, or unwillingness, to slow down—something of which I have always been guilty.

Thanks, Brene Brown, for the gentle reminder that “ordinary” is not always colored in grey. Often, it appears in subtle but exquisite shades of saffron, or lavender, everyday Connecticut blue.

the name game

2010-12-23T21:19:00.003-05:00

Reverb question of the day by Becca Wilcott:

Prompt: New name. Let's meet again, for the first time. If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?

I have never been in love with my name. I am generally partial to female names that end in “a” (Juliana, Amelia, et cetera), but “Patricia” just sounds a little too militant for my taste. And though I go by “Tricia,” doctors, dentists and telemarketers invariably reduce my name to “Pat,” a handle that made me cringe even before the woefully androgynous Saturday Night Live character had been invented.

If Becca had asked this question when I was in fourth grade, I would have said “Jill Jackson.” I was in love with alliterative names then (I grew up in the era of duos like Captain and Tenille, and thought Toni Tenille was very, very groovy), and Jill Jackson was the moniker I had given to both my imaginary persona and the main character in my first book. I imagined her to look something like Kristy McNichol circa 1980: medium brown shoulder-length hair with carefree but well-tamed feathers; coffee-colored eyes that were both innocent and savvy; self-sufficient and assured, but touchingly vulnerable underneath. Sometimes, she smoked cigarettes (like McNichols’ character in “Little Darlings”) and wore a denim jacket; at other times, she was athletic—a distance runner, or the only girl pitcher in her Little League. She was also gifted with animals (bunnies and squirrels and chipmunks, not just your average house pets) and was something of a loner—by choice, of course.

And “Jill” seemed to me the quintessential 80’s teenager: she was pretty, but not beautiful. She wore mini-skirts and leggings and lip gloss and adorable ankle-length boots. She liked the Rolling Stones, but also enjoyed the theater. In fact, she was based in part on my childhood mentor, a real-life Jill who studied journalism at Brandeis University and introduced me to David Bowie and the women’s cross-country team.

In fifth grade, I discovered Greek and Roman mythology. My friend (and doppelganger) Wendy Delfino and I found old curtains in the attic of my house and wrapped them around ourselves, imagining them to look like the long white robes worn by Aphrodite and Demeter in the books we took out of the library. Around that time, I liked to pretend that my name was Diana: Goddess of the Hunt (loved her bow and arrow), or Athena: Goddess of War and Truth. Both were lean, dark-haired, and buff—but not so muscular as to appear unfeminine. Diana lived in the woods and hunted wild boars. Athena had sprung from the head of Zeus like a lightning bolt.

In high school, I continued to write fiction, and as my characters became more complex, so did their names. Alliteration and Hellenophilia (that’s a love of Greek culture, folks) were ever present: the heroine of my interconnected short stories was Ariana Alexandros (her father was a Greek artist named Ajax. Hey, I was in high school). A few years later, I took a Russian Lit class and fell in love with the stories, and the name, of Tatyana Tolstaya. I had always loved Russian names, especially female ones: such a rich, sonorous blend of the guttural and the mellifluous. Anna Akhmatova. Katja. And the charming nicknames: Dmitri became Dimka. Mikhail was Mischa. Katerina was Kitty (or so she becomes in the English translation of Anna Karenina).

The Greek and Russian influence is evident in the name I would give myself if we were to meet again for the first time: Alexandra Bettencourt (for though I chose not to take my husband’s last name in real life, I do love its aristocratic sound). But you can call me Alex. Strength, beauty, and infallible sense.

The name I would choose for myself is the name I have bestowed upon my daughter—and, in another form, my dog. Alexa is an abbreviated version of my imagined appellation, and Sasha is the nickname by which many American “Alexandras” have chosen to go (in Russia, “Sasha” is usually a male nickname, for Alexander, or Aleksandr). Alexa was not my first choice, nor was it my second, but it’s a name I would gladly have taken myself. “Classy,” said the nurse in the Birthplace, where our daughter was born, when I told her the name on which we had settled.

Like most kids, Alexa will probably grow to dislike her name (she has already declared, on at least one occasion, that she would like us to call her “Sage”), but if she complains, I’ll let her know how much worse it would have been for her had she been born when her mother was reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy. “Alexa Bettencourt” will sound much more pleasing to her, I believe, than “Arwen” or “Galadriel” Bettencourt. And at least no one will ever call her Pat (though they may refer to her as “Al”).

over the rainbow

2010-12-22T22:02:00.002-05:00

Reverb 10 daily writing prompt: Travel. How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year? (thanks, Tara Hunt)

Nothing quite brings me back to myself like a road trip. When I was in college, my boyfriend and I would frequently embark on camping and climbing trips conceived only hours before. We spent Christmas in Steamboat Springs, spring break in Moab, Utah. When school ended, we drove out to Seattle and then up the Alaska Highway. Once, early on in our relationship, he called me at work around 9:30 pm. “What time do you get off?” he asked.

“Eleven.”

“Any interest in driving down to the Sangre de Cristos and climbing Crestone Peak? It’s about a four hour drive. We could leave when you get off work, sleep in the truck, and start at sunrise tomorrow.”

I paused, considering the level of my fatigue. I was working 30 hour weeks in addition to the five classes I was taking. Then I imagined waking with the sun at the base of a 14,000 foot peak. “Sure,” I said, reaching for the coffee pot. “See you at 11.”

When Bryan and I got engaged, we were already in the midst planning a summer on the road. We decided we’d make our wedding part of the journey, and exchanged vows on Flattop Mountain in Anchorage, Alaska.

Air travel is no less thrilling for me. Four months before Dylan was born, I managed to squeeze in a quick trip to England for a Jane Austen conference. I suspected, but did not fully acknowledge, that this would likely be my last trip to Europe for a while. It never occurred to me, however, that I would not get on a plane again for at least seven years (still waiting for that next flight).

While road trips of the impromptu variety have, for obvious reasons, been a bit of a challenge to execute of late, Bryan and I have managed to cultivate a healthy wanderlust in our kids. In 2010, we camped our way out to Colorado and back, making miles in a 1982 Volkswagen Westfalia. When I began to envision our trip to the Rockies, we were, in my imagination, always seated comfortably on a jet—an air conditioned jet—watching movies and looking at the clouds. So, when Bryan suggested that we consider doing the trip the way we had always done it in the past, I laughed. A camper van with two small kids? But when we shopped—online—for a van like the one in which we’d spent our honeymoon, nostalgia crept in and warmed me to the idea.

I have already written about the vast differences between “kamping” (KOA-style, that is) and camping. The stars in a glorified parking lot are somewhat less magical than the stars above a primitive campground in Arches National Park. But still, we were on a road trip! And each time we crossed the border into another state, the kids would whoop and cheer, and Dylan would write the name of the state in his journal.

Our trip last summer was a far cry from the road trips of my twenties, and if I could have hit the fast-forward button through the flatter sections of Pennsylvania, and through Kansas, I would gladly have done so (no offense to the residents of those fine states). But even on the sweatiest of cornfield days, I remained in the throes of road fever (okay, there was that one campsite in Illinois that caused me to question whether we were truly in possession of our mental faculties, but otherwise, road fever prevailed).

But while van camping allowed me to reconnect with my inner crunchy-granola, it also made me think about the trips I haven’t taken, the trips sane folks take. You know, cruises and beach vacations in the Caribbean. Trips that aren’t so labor-intensive. Lately, it’s Mexico I hear calling, mostly by way of the monthly AAA newsletter that comes in our mail. And with our youngest child entering kindergarten next year, we won’t have to pay that preschool tuition check. Which means we might actually be able to travel beyond Vermont more than once every eight years.

I don’t know how far we will travel in 2011, but I do plan to put some of this “extra” money into an adventure fund. And maybe this time I will find myself reclining instead of ascending. At the moment, sitting across from a mountain of unfolded laundry, I think I might be ready for a vacation where my toes are tickling each other in soft sand, instead of sweating in Smartwool and hiking boots.

sore labour's bath

2010-12-21T23:07:00.005-05:00

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Today's Writing Prompt: Future self. Imagine yourself five years from now. What advice would you give your current self for the year ahead? (Bonus: Write a note to yourself 10 years ago. What would you tell your younger self?) (Thanks, Jenny Blake)

Dear Trixie:

What are you doing up at 12:30 again? Tomorrow morning, you will stick your face up close to the mirror and lament those circles and creases, and you will yawn and tell your puppy, who is running in circles and dropping her tennis ball at your feet, that you absolutely MUST get more sleep. The pup will yelp and you will dig through your cosmetics bag for the concealer (which, younger self, only highlights the circles, anyway. Try sleep instead).

Oh, and self? You know that baby you want to have “in the future”? I know this is going to sound crazy, you being only 29, but you might want to consider motherhood as a less distant possibility. As it turns out, no amount of running, ginseng, or green tea can preserve the kind of energy and vitality that is an absolute requirement of the job.

Also, it’s clear that Dad is eager to become a grandfather, and, well, you might come to appreciate giving him this gift a little earlier than you had originally planned. I know we’ve never quite considered Dad as “tender,” but you will be surprised and touched at the transformation that grandfatherhood brings.

But to get back to my original point: get some sleep, self. I could give you advice about finances, or friends, or parenting choices. But without proper rest, you will act impulsively (and often regretfully) in spite of any suggestions I make. And you will buy expensive eye cream from Origins and convince yourself that dabbing it along the dark and puffy spots under your peepers will compensate for years of sacrificing beauty sleep so that you could send one more email, or watch Jon Stewart (DVR, Self. Trust me), or search Ebay for that plum-colored hooded dress you haven’t seen but know exists, and in your size.

I’m telling you this, Self, because I am slumped over my laptop, unable to produce a single exciting sentence, because last night I gave sleep the bird yet again, and then got up with the dawn so that I could trip and stumble through my morning run.

Self, I have so much to tell you. If I can just get some sleep tonight, I’ll remember just what that is.

P.S. This is another Reverb post. Click here for more info.

in defense of nothing

2010-12-20T22:22:00.003-05:00

Note: this post is part of a daily writing project called Reverb 10: Reflect on the year, manifest what’s next.

Prompt: Beyond avoidance. What should you have done this year but didn't because you were too scared, worried, unsure, busy or otherwise deterred from doing? (Bonus: Will you do it?) (Thanks, Jake Nickell)

Doing nothing can be a waste of time, or it can be an art form. --Blogger at zenhabits.com

This past year, I mentally rearranged my priority list at least seventy-three times. Sometimes, this rearrangement would happen as I was right in the middle of a task: I’d be cleaning out the Tupperware cupboard and think, “That dining room could really use some dusting.” Or I would think of an idea for a lesson plan, and then decide that my electronic documents needed filing. Or sometimes I would only stop organizing Tupperware long enough to add to The List.

Like many people I know, I often find that my life is ruled by “shoulds.” If I’m reading the paper, I should be reading student essays. If I’m vacuuming, I should be playing with my kids. If I’m playing with my kids, I should be working on my lesson plan. If I’m folding laundry, I should be. . .well. . . folding laundry.

I’m aware that my issue is far from unique.

This year, though, I plan to put “nothing” at the top of the priority list. When you think about it, how much time do we spend burrowing our way through our chores so that we can have some “free time”? And yet, when the floors are shiny and the books alphabetized on their shelves and the dishes back in their cubbies, what do we do? We notice a nick in the wall next to the fridge and then get out the spackle. Or, if we are wise enough sit back on the sofa and enjoy a few minutes of “30 Rock” or “Charlie Brown’s Christmas,” we are still conscious of The List, which is never far from hand.

I’m not suggesting that there is personal satisfaction to be found in being a couch potato. But I do believe in the restorative power of doing nothing, even a few minutes of nothing, on a regular basis. Last winter, I was drinking a cup of tea in the living room when I heard something hit the window behind me. I turned around. I saw neither crack nor culprit, but I was momentarily blown away by the late afternoon sky, which glowed pink against the snow, reminding me of the alpenglow I had witnessed with awe while camping in Alaska in the early spring. I knelt into the back of the couch and just stared, sipping at my tea, until the sun had set and the whiny sounds of hunger could be heard from the toy room.

I have often complained about the over-scheduling of kids that is so prevalent in our culture at the moment. Why, I have wondered, is it so difficult for parents (and teachers) to recognize the value of down time? We have a pathological fear of the idle moment, the white space that allows for self-reflection. Of silence. And yet, in a world where we are perpetually assaulted with pop-up advertisements, text messages, calls from tele-researchers collecting data about how many electronics we have or who we will support in the coming election, and toys that babble and coo like gremlins, we need a few precious moments of nothingness. And we crave it, and fantasize about it, and avoid it like fruitcake.

So, back to Jake Nickell’s “bonus” question, “will you do it?” Yes, absolutely, I will do nothing in 2011. As soon as I finish cleaning the bathroom.

rock star therapy

2010-12-19T23:15:00.004-05:00

Here's my Reverb for today. Barely made the deadline.

Prompt: Healing. What healed you this year? Was it sudden, or a drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011? (Thanks, Leoni Allan).

This year, I will be healed by the awesome power of karaoke. No, I’m not joking. Well, not totally joking.

This morning began with an emotional, accusatory email from a student who was unhappy with her final grade. Though the complaint was expected, it was no less upsetting. It seems that, while I have become progressively more insightful and intuitive in my teaching practice, eleven years of dealing with students has done very little to increase the thickness of my skin.

Often, when I’m feeling stressed or anxious, I go for the M&Ms. If I have none on hand, I settle for the nearest chocolate remedy.

Today, after replying to said email, I headed for my mom’s kitchen, where a bowl of holiday candy (M&Ms included) waited on the counter. I took a handful and then did the grown-up equivalent of crying on mom’s shoulder: I unleashed my tirade of frustration while Mom listened patiently, nodded, shook her head, or said, “That’s ridiculous,” depending on which response was most appropriate.

Meanwhile, Bryan and Dylan were singing a duet—“Here Comes the Sun”—on the karaoke machine my mom bought the kids for Christmas. When the song ended, Bryan handed me his mike. “Dylan,” he said, “I think it’s mom’s turn. She needs a little music.”

The machine played the first few rockin’ notes of “Sgt. Pepper’s.” I put the M&M’s down and reached for the mike. It was twenty years ago today that Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play. . . .

I was Paul McCartney, circa 1968. I shouted and shrugged. Dylan, inspired, moved in closer and leaned against my shoulder, Keith Richards style, while he stumbled through the words (that screen can be so distracting).

And then I was myself. I could almost see the negative energy conjured up by the email riding out on the lyrics. Bryan joined in on his guitar. Mom looked on in amusement.

Someone who derives as much pleasure from singing as I do should really have been blessed with a better voice. But, hey, Bob Dylan proved to the world that carrying a tune doesn’t have to be a requirement of the job. And with a little adjustment of the “echo” knob, I could make it sound like I was nearly on-key.

But karaoke isn’t about making something beautiful. It isn’t about perfecting a craft. It’s about letting go. It’s about giving yourself permission to be ridiculous for a few minutes. It’s about tapping yourself on the shoulder and saying, hey, self, you’re taking yourself a bit seriously at the moment. Here’s a microphone and a campy reproduction of a popular song—you can go ahead and unclench your fists.

It’s rock star therapy. Once you have gotten in touch with your inner Mick Jagger, you can wag your finger at the world, preen a little bit, and say, “Uh huh. Shedoobie.”

compartments, continued

2010-12-18T17:08:00.005-05:00

Prompt: Try. What do you want to try next year? Is there something you wanted to try in 2010? What happened when you did / didn't go for it? (Thanks, Kaileen Elise)

Note: This post is part of Reverb 10: Reflect on the year, manifest what’s next. Go to www.reverb10.com for more info.

( Due to time constraints (I'm at mom's), I’m setting my watch for 5 minutes, which I assume will make this post less “polished” than some of the others.)

Several years ago, I started writing a novel. The novel grew out of a selection of short stories that revolved around a similar theme, and took place in the same location. The stories were unfinished, mostly because the ideas behind them seemed too expansive for short fiction.

The novel is nowhere close to completion.

So, in 2011, I would like to finish a project. It doesn’t have to be the novel; I’m quite certain finishing that will take years. But I have a strong desire to complete something: to renovate a room, to revise a piece until it’s publication-ready; to organize my closets (there are only about four of them in the house, so that shouldn’t be an overwhelming task).

I’m thinking “compartment” approach (see previous post, “Stacking Sartre’s Shelves”) might be a good place to start. Since going back to work, 18 months after Dylan was born, I insisted I could not possibly find time to write every day. The time simply did not exist. And yet I've been at my laptop, diligently reverbing, for the last two and a half weeks. It seems to me that if I can manage steal five minutes a day to clean out a drawer, or edit a paragraph, I might just reach December 2011 with a feeling of subtle satisfaction.

The five minutes is up. On to the next compartment.

lesson learned. again.

2010-12-17T15:42:00.005-05:00

Still re-verbing: Reflect on the year, manifest what's next. See www.reverb10.com for more details.

Prompt: Lesson learned. What was the best thing you learned about yourself this past year? And how will you apply that lesson going forward? (Thanks, Tara Weaver)

As I am writing in the midst of final exam week, I can say that I have learned the same lesson this semester that I learn every semester: I need to be more of a hard-ass in my teaching. I need to worry less about encouraging and cultivating the precious voices and egos of my students. In part, this is what makes me a good teacher, but each year, I find that I still have not quite tailored my comments so that the geniality is balanced with blunt honesty.

One of the challenges of teaching this course is that we use a portfolio system, one which allows us to look at students’ progress holistically. For this reason, the students are not graded on individual essays and journals; rather, they receive a provisional grade at the midterm, and a grade at the final. So, their sense of where they stand in the class is based entirely on my comments. And in my comments, I try to use language that is unambiguous, encouraging, and activity-related. In other words, rather than saying, “poor analysis here,” I might say, “What other questions might you ask? Look at the word you missed in your close reading; what do you think the author is getting at here?” So, the commentary is a combination of dialogue with the student, assessment of student’s progress, and suggestions for future assignments.

But sometimes I forget that, in their anxiety about passing the course, they often have tunnel vision when interpreting my words. So if I say, “Here you have done a skillful job of incorporating passages from the text, but you have completely disregarded the assignment question,” they will highlight “skillful job” and pat themselves on the back. Their problem, or mine? Usually, it’s both. They think they’ve earned an A, and I have to point them back to the second part of the sentence.

In college, I took a course with an intimidating old-school professor who had perfected the art of bluntness. On the first two essays, I earned an A, and began to believe that I had the formula. I sat down and wrote my third paper in about ninety minutes. It was cool, neat, and probably about five paragraphs long (the book was Fielding’s Tom Jones, which is about five hundred pages long). “It’s almost too easy,” I thought, and handed in the paper the following morning with complete confidence in my ability to impress Dr. L.

His written comments: “Very straightforward, Tricia. And dull.” Emotionless. Straight to the point. And very, very effective. A much-needed kick in the ego, one that still resonates when I think a piece of writing is “finished.” No comment in my college career motivated me as quickly and as deeply as that one. (Side note: Dr. L became my advisor, and we still keep in touch from time to time.)

Of course, I could never get away with such comments in my work (though I did work with a teacher once, in another school, who told one of his students, with a chuckle, that her essay was “utter shit.” I think his British accent made it sound almost like a compliment). But when I look at the work my students produced this semester, and when I read, in their self-assessments, their expectations regarding grades, I’m stunned by the disconnect between what they have written and what they think they have earned.

So, this winter break, I’ll be developing and practicing my “portfolio language.” Yeah, it’s great to read that you are “sweet” and “helpful” and “always willing to meet with students” on your course evaluations, but it’s even more rewarding to read student work that reflects the actual objectives of the course. Some serious re-vamping is in order. I’ll be studying the art of being blunt. Watch out, world.

on friendship (or, how i learned to stop whining and love connecticut. ish)

2010-12-16T20:12:00.003-05:00

Note: this post is part of a daily writing project called Reverb 10: reflect on the year, manifest what's next. Click here for more info.

Prompt: Friendship. How has a friend changed you or your perspective on the world this year? Was this change gradual, or a sudden burst?

Funny you should ask, Martha Mihalick, because I was just thinking about this topic yesterday (in fact, I was so busy thinking that it seems I forgot to reverb. Oops).

It’s not so much a friend, but friendship itself, that has brought a surprising perspective on a subject that has troubled me since I moved here in 2000: location. What I think about when I think about “home.” I have whined about the absence of tall mountains, the lack of community in this bedroom town where I live, about conflicting values (mine and the Joneses) ad nauseum.

But while I was whining, I was also actively seeking out potential members of the community I hoped to create. Adventurous and whimsical folks who aren’t afraid to get dirty. Or cold. Or tipsy. Or sweaty. Or out of bed on dark winter mornings. Mothers who agree that kids should be outside in every season, and that opting out of scheduled activities once in a while isn’t going to socially and emotionally cripple them. People who aren’t afraid to say the “f” word once in a while. Who don’t worship at the Church of the Converted Consumer.

And slowly this community has begun to materialize. Some of its members have left for other states, but they continue to make their presence felt in the friends they’ve left in their trail, friends who have made their way into the village, too, bringing their food, their politics, their running shoes. Their children. Their stories. And in some cases, their chickens and bees (you know who you are).

The change in perspective was not a “sudden burst,” but the realization of it came at a moment I can pinpoint: I was enjoying a veggie burger, fries, and a Pale Ale at the Northampton Brewery after a group hike on the Seven Sisters trail in Holyoke, MA.

Once (as I have mentioned once or twice on this blog), someone asked me to summarize my life in one word, and I replied, “periphery.” I have spent a lot of time hovering on the verge of community. This can be attributed in part to my timidity, which I have spent much of my life confronting and overcoming. And then there is my commitment-phobia (which might have something to do with the shyness). But I’m pretty sure that my restlessness, which drove me from the northeast to the west to the northwest and back to the northeast, has prevented me from forming the kind of meaningful friendships and alliances that comprise a rich community.

Driving home from Northampton that day, I started to wonder, and have continued to wonder, whether I would, given the opportunity, be willing to sacrifice the village we’ve patched together. It seems unlikely that, if a job opportunity in, say, Burlington, Vermont jumped into my lap, I would shake my head and go about my bread-baking. But I would definitely pause. This isn’t the village I imagined (and it isn’t even close to being finished). But if I stretch my imagination far enough, I can almost see myself sticking around for a while..

quiet

2010-12-14T16:38:00.002-05:00

Note: this post part of Reverb 10: reflect on 2010, manifest what's next. Click here for more info.

Prompt: Appreciate. What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year? How do you express gratitude for it? (Thanks, Victoria Klein)

Over the summer, when it looked as if our long-awaited road trip was going to fall through, my friend Lori suggested that I pull out a picture of the Rockies, put it on a table in a quiet place, and meditate. Visualize yourself in Colorado, she said.

I’m not sure if following her advice had anything to do with our change of fortune, but meditating did remind me of how much I missed quiet. And I don’t mean dead silence, because when you are quiet, when you find a way to separate yourself from the noise—physical and psychological—of the washing machine, the kids bickering, the sirens on Route 10, then other, more natural, more welcome noises make their way in. In the summer, the crickets and the frogs (whose noise became somewhat unwelcome, I have to admit, after they started reproducing in our kiddie pool) provided the background music for my evening meditation.

Now that it’s cold, it’s the noises of the house that permeate, and these, after a certain hour, are no less pleasing: Sasha snoring; Bryan playing guitar; “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” playing in Lexi’s room.

Sometimes, I sit at my “meditation table” for only two or three minutes, but it’s enough. Last Christmas, Bryan gave me a chime, and when I hit it lightly with the mallot, the effect is Pavlovian. My shoulders release their tension, my breath comes more slowly, my muscles relax.

The picture of the Rockies remains, along with rocks collected on our trip. Sitting or kneeling at my little table has become a nightly ritual, and I will show gratitude for my evening moments of quiet by continuing the practice in 2011.

finding your sweaty-toothed madman

2010-12-13T21:08:00.005-05:00

(Note: this post is part of a project called Reverb 10, where, for each day in December, writers reflect on 2010 and "manifest what's next." Click here for more info.)

Prompt: Action. When it comes to aspirations, it’s not about ideas. It's about making ideas happen. What's your next step? Thanks, Scott Belsky.

When I was in college, my advisor, SueEllen Campbell, gave a talk on her recently published book, Bringing the Mountain Home. She was an avid hiker and naturalist, and she said that the idea for the book had come when she was flipping through her journals and was struck by how, every time she ascended a peak or discovered a new wildflower, she would look to the words of another writer—Thoreau, or Annie Dillard or Wordsworth—to express her sense of awe. This led her to question the authenticity of her feelings. Was she, in fact, experiencing a moment of “being in dreams awake,” or could she strip away these remembered—and therefore suspect—emotions in order to find her own words? In part, her book was her way of discovering and creating a new language, one that relied not on adages and commonplaces, but on molding her own experience into words.

When I read Scott’s prompt, I was impressed not only by the word “action,” but by the sense of action in the question itself. The sense of control. Making ideas happen. Like Campbell, I have often flipped through books of poetry or essays to find that perfect quotation, rather than relying on my own id. When I am trying to get my students to find their authentic voice, I sometimes show the scene from Dead Poets’ Society in which Mr. Keating (Robin Williams) pulls Ethan Hawke’s mealy-mouthed character from his seat, puts his hand over the boy’s eyes, and implores him to describe Walt Whitman, whose portrait hangs on the wall. “A m-madman,” Hawke stutters. Keating wants more. “A sweaty-toothed madman!” Hawke declares, frightened by his own poetic sensibility. Every time I watch that scene, I feel like standing on my chair and yelling, “Oh Captain, my Captain!”

See what I mean? I respond to Hawke’s momentous breakthrough by echoing a tired old phrase by the madman himself.

As a teacher of writing, I find the most nerve-grinding freshman writer-ism to be the reliance on what the writers Graff and Birkenstein call “closest cliché syndrome:”

in which what gets summarized is not the view the author in question has actually expressed, but a familiar cliché that the writer mistakes for the author's view (sometimes because the writer believes it and mistakenly assumes the author must too). So, for example Martin Luther King Jr.'s passionate defense of civil disobedience in ‘Letter from Birmingham Jail’ gets summarized not as the defense of political protest that it actually is, but as a plea for everyone to "just get along." (Graff and Birkenstein, “The Art of Summarizing”)

This syndrome not only prevents a reader/writer from giving a difficult text a fair reading, it also discourages the writer from believing he or she has anything new to add to the discussion. It’s also a way of avoiding difficulty.

This practice is usually common in writers who are less secure in their language. And I concede that it’s possible I’m so bothered by this idiosyncrasy because I have too often relied on established forms and conventions even as I rail against them. Too often—much more often now than when I fell in love with writing thirty-something years ago—I define my writing by what other writers are doing, and then I crumple my paper into a ball (or I do the electronic equivalent of this) and toss it into the trash. Or into a file that disappears beneath other files.

I have an “ideas for stories and essays” folder, and it’s bursting. I scribble in it often. But what happens far less often is the transformation of those ideas into action (hmmm.. . somewhere in that line I hear the voice of Audre Lorde).

The next step is happening now. Thanks to Reverb, I’m producing. One could argue that much of what I’m producing is “merely” ideas. But I would reply that the action comes in putting the ideas on paper.

SueEllen Campbell needn’t have worried about her tendency to sound her borrowed “yawp” from the top of Long’s Peak; by the time she wrote the aforementioned book, she was already an established ecofeminist and writer. And yet she sensed that her yawp could be a little more barbaric, a little more authentic, and she put that thought into action and produced. My next step will be to keep the reverb reverberating through December and into a new year.

harmony

2010-12-12T21:56:00.002-05:00

(Note: this post is part of a project called Reverb 10, where, for each day in December, writers reflect on 2010 and "manifest what's next." Click here for more info.)

Prompt: Body integration. This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn't mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present? (Thanks, Patrick Reynolds.)

When I opened my laptop, I was going to lie and say that it was the moment I nailed that perfect swan dive in my yoga class. That would have prevented me from writing yet another blog post about trail running.

But it wasn’t the swan dive. It was, in fact, a trail run. Trail runs, to be more precise.

Patrick’s prompt eloquently summarizes what trail running is for me. The moment of cohesiveness in 2010 was not an isolated event, as there have been many such moments. Each season brings a new awareness of the connection between mind, body, and earth. I prefer trail running in the fall, when the ground is a quilted carpet of orange, red and yellow. Yesterday morning, the purple trail at Sleeping Giant was covered, lightly but beautifully, in mostly untracked snow. In May, if we’ve had a blessed rainy season, the stream at Brooksvale Park becomes a roaring river, and on occasion, we have used a fallen tree as a bridge, straddling the trunk and scooting across to the other side. In summer, the Robins have re-established themselves in the oaks and maples. The ferns open up to showcase their lush, verdant leaves.

And there is the adrenaline. And the exertion. And the sound of sneakers crunching in the frozen mud. Trail running is physical, spiritual. Occasionally emotional. But always, mind and body are awake and aware.

The trail is, among many other things, my temple.

11 things

2010-12-11T23:29:00.004-05:00

Note: This post is part of a writing project called Reverb 10, in which writers are asked to reflect on 2010 and manifest what's next. Click here for more info!

Prompt: Prompt: 11 Things. What are 11 things your life doesn't need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life? (Thanks, Sam Davidson.)

1. Suburban syndrome (see previous blog entry, “Living with Suburban Syndrome”). I’m happy to say that I’ve found a remedy that has been beneficial: actively seeking out, and surrounding myself with, folks who practice—and therefore validate—the notion that a house doesn’t need to be spotless to be charming; that it’s okay for kids to fall and get hurt sometimes; and that taking your kids hiking when it is below forty degrees does not constitute child abuse.

2. Wheat. Just for a little while. Previous attempts to eliminate wheat from my diet have not been successful (have you ever tried those gluten-free breads?), but as the aches (joint and stomach) have been intensifying of late, I think it might be time to get radical.

3. Folding laundry. What a colossal waste of time. Creases add character. Wrinkles are whimsical. (Thanks, Stacey, for the inspiration!)

4. Clutter. Enough said.

5. Letters. I have a handful of gems in a Doc Martens shoebox, but the rest of them will be tossed into the kindling pile. A wise woman once said, “You want remember, so just remember.”*

6. Self-doubt. It’s the reason stories go unfinished, friendships go un-nurtured.

7. Trying to read Salman Rushdie’s novels. Seriously, is this some kind of joke?

8. Drooling over the greener grass on the other side. Really, I’m pretty freakin’ blessed.

9. Cheap dog food (many thanks to my flatulent dog for the gentle reminder).

10. Toe-clips. Yes, the toe clips on my mountain bike did actually save my life when I went down in Moab, but it’s time to move on to clipless pedals (and you call yourself a cyclist?)

11. Drinking wine before re-verbing. No need to explain.

(*Rena, the Russian-American foster "mom" in Janet Fitch's White Oleander)

stacking sartre's shelves

2010-12-10T16:29:00.005-05:00

(Note: this post is part of Reverb 10, an online writing project that asks writers to reflect on 2010 and "manifest what's next." Click here for more info.)

December 10 – Wisdom Wisdom. What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out? (Author: Susannah Conway)

When we first moved in together, Bryan used to insist, when a pen or a gadget or a book was missing, “I have a system for everything.” This was his way of implying that: a. He was not responsible for having misplaced said item, given that he had a system (a system which, in his view, had yet to break down); and b. That I should get my act together and come up with a system. This, he argued, somewhat logically, would prevent such common occurrences as the frenzied search for car keys; the disappearing lesson plan; the forgotten doctor’s appointment; or the unreturned phone call. If I just had a system, I wouldn’t spend a lot of precious energy and time cleaning up the messes left by my disorganization.

Well, duh. The flaw in this logic, I often pointed out, was that in order to have a system, you have to be system-oriented. Otherwise the system, if it is ever implemented, invariably breaks down. I mean, It wasn’t as if disorganization was a quality I embraced. Nor did I shun the notion of becoming more organized. In fact, I had a Dayrunner, and in it I would record all of my appointments for the month, the week, and the day.

And then I would leave it on the dining room table. Or in a bag. Or somewhere (if I had a system, I’d know where).

So when the planner failed to bring me the organization I needed to function in the world like a normal person, I bought a wall calendar as well. Then I bought some brightly colored markers. It worked, a little. But then came motherhood, and with it a new level of scatterbrainedness. How is it possible to effectively keep track of dates, library books, appointments, pencils, when I’m keeping track of them for three (and sometimes four) people?

Other people, I would notice with a sigh, seemed to do this with grace and precision. But I am genetically predisposed to absent-mindedness. Stories abound about my grandmother, who, long before she entered old age, would do things like fry a banana, not realizing until she went to take a bite that it wasn’t a sausage. Or she would lose things: a key, a mug from which she had been drinking only minutes before; a jar of mayonnaise she had just taken out in order to make a tuna sandwich.

What hope could I possibly have?

I found the solution to my problem in an unlikely source. Last year, I was reading a book about the complicated relationship of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Most people who know of these two writers also know that their common-law “marriage” was of an open nature (in certain cases, the two even became involved with the same woman). What I had not realized was that Sartre, though he felt justified in being romantically involved with several women at once, was not open with his lovers about his polygamy (an ethical violation he himself would have termed “bad faith”). Even Beauvoir, who by her own account agreed with their open arrangement, was left in the dark when it came to certain affairs.

How did Sartre manage this? “Compartments,” he said. Each woman in his life occupied a compartment. These were labeled, with names, dates, and times. Compartment A, “Olga,” he might open on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from 10-12 a.m. Under special agreement, he might be persuaded to open a particular compartment at another time as well, but for the most part, this was his system. And it worked. At least for a while.

Where is this going, you ask. Don’t worry; it has nothing to do with polygamy (or, more appropriately, infidelity).

I’m aware that any number of self-help books and magazines sing the praises of compartmentalizing (not just in the form of stacking shelves from IKEA) when it comes to organizing “clutter”, and you are probably wondering how I could have been struck by such a simple concept. It’s not that I hadn’t yet come across the idea; it was more that I hadn’t given myself permission to put the various obligations and activities that make up my life into definite and concrete time slots. I have often complained that, when school is in session, I am perpetually preoccupied. Even as I’m reading a story to the kids, I’m thinking about the stack of essays that waits in my bag, or about how I am going to fill up a two-hour class. It’s maddening, and frustrating, I’m sure, for Dylan and Alexa. Last year, Dylan brought a math game home from school, a game he was supposed to play with his parents, keep for one or two nights, and then return. Between Bryan, who was on another high-stress project at work, and me, who was wading through a quagmire of midterm portfolios, we forgot about the game. When I realized, with dismay, the game was still sitting in the living room, Dylan said, “Don’t worry. I told my teacher that mommy and daddy are too busy, and she said I could keep it for one more night.”

Ugh. Time to implement a system. I have always resisted schedules, weekly commitments, rubrics. But in this case, I had to agree with Bryan: it was time to implement a system—le Systeme de Sartre.

Being an adjunct at a university means having my contract renewed every semester. This, I’m sure, has led to my (in retrospect, irrational) tendency to put work first, even at home. There's a certain amount of anxiety that comes with knowing your job might, at any time, be given to a teacher with more time, better qualifications, or a willingness to take on more classes.

How many people had to tell me “Enjoy this time, it passes so quickly” before I was wise enough to put the papers aside? I mean really, did it matter if the essays were returned a day later? Even a week later? If my lesson plan wasn't as detailed as it could be?

I haven't been able to fully escape the preoccupation, but I do have a compartment labelled "schoolwork". Sometimes the drawer is overstuffed, and I can see the papers’ edges sticking out, but for the most part, I slam it shut when Lexi gets home from school. It comes out again for an hour or so in the afternoon, then I close it until after bedtime stories (at least on most nights).

And in reorganizing, I have been forced to be realistic about the size and number of my shelves. I run most mornings. Do I really need to find a space for the gym, too? I can get essentially the same workout at home (for free), in between putting the chicken in the oven and stirring the rice. The kitchen chair makes a great bench for dips. Hand weights can be used while watching Thursday night TV.

Ditching the gym has a secondary benefit: more time for writing.

Some of the compartments—like the ones for Facebook and Youtube—take up a little too much space. That’s something I’ll work on for 2011.

madame bovary's masquerade ball

2010-12-09T11:20:00.008-05:00

Prompt: Party. What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans. (Thanks, Shauna Reid)

So, I’m still participating in Reverb 10, a writing project in which authors reflect on the past year, and consider how to mindfully enter 2011.

And this prompt has left me sadly mindful of this fact: I attended NO rockin’ party in 2010, and I can’t think of one I attended in 2009, either.

It did not take a writing prompt for me to come to this conclusion. This past October, as the kids were deciding on costumes, I thought, “Why doesn’t anyone around here throw grown-up Halloween parties? Why don’t I?” Hell, most of my memorable Halloweens took place after I turned 18. It’s a holiday I still associate with merry Bacchanalian revelry (if only in my memory), and yet, for the past six or so years, it has really been all about the kids. About the candy. About Star Wars and Disney princesses.

On November 1, I opened up Facebook and was greeted with a photo of pointy-boob-era Madonna, decked out in gold and holding a drink. She was striking a pose amidst three or four other Madonnas (a sampling from the Immaculate Collection): Material Girl, Holiday, Papa Don’t Preach, and Truth or Dare. When I enlarged the picture, I saw that Pointy Boob was my sister, Kaytie. I hit “slideshow,” and watched the Madonnas get into the groove. Damn, I thought. And started making plans for the fabulous costume party I’m going to throw next year.

Not that I don’t get out and tear it up. My beer drinking buddies, with whom I occasionally run, can be pretty raucous when we get together for our monthly “meetings” at the Half Moon café, or at our ruthless holiday Yankee Swaps, where we battle for the most powerful headlamp, the tastiest homebrew, or the coolest running log (I know, pretty wild, right?).

But I can’t say that any party has really “rocked my socks off” since my brother’s wedding in 2006.

So, here is the party I will throw next October (hope you can make it):

You are cordially invited to Madame Bovary’s Masquerade Ball! Please come dressed as your favorite sexy, scandalous, or salacious literary figure (no Jane Austens, please). See what happens when Anais Nin seduces Heathcliff, or Lady Chatterly hooks up with Humbert Humbert. Come for the Prologue, stay for the Denouement!

Music provided by Shakespear’s Sister.

Open bar will include Uncle Fezziwig’s Ale.

Parlor games will include Hunt the Slipper, Charades, and Squeak, Piggy, Squeak.

Mark your calendars, everyone, because this wild woman is gearing up for one Titillating Toussaint! See you there.

pieces

2010-12-08T21:34:00.007-05:00

(*Note: this post is part of a writing project by Reverb 10. Reverb 10 is an annual event and online initiative to reflect on your year and manifest what’s next. Use the end of your year as an opportunity to reflect on what's happened, and to send out reverberations for the year ahead.)

Prompt: Beautifully Different. Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful. (Author: Karen Walrond)

I have a scar on my right hand: a tiny grayish tattoo, courtesy of a troubled six-year-old who bit me in a fit of rage while I was on duty as a Psychiatric Treatment Counselor in Anchorage, Alaska.

My “wedding dress” was a pair of white shorts and a white polyester hiking shirt. I walked down the aisle on Flattop Mountain.

I trained as a doula and had the privilege of attending two amazing women as they labored and gave birth, aided by nothing but the strength of their will.

I used to regularly wake up outside, in a sleeping bag, with icicles in my hair.

I am adamant about throwing "green" birthday parties. (This has sometimes backfired, as guests, baffled by the basket of cloth napkins, will resort to using tissues.)

At any given moment, I might bust out a tune from “West Side Story,” “Cabaret,” “Hedwig,” “Annie,” “The Sound of Music,” “Jesus Christ Superstar,” or “A Chorus Line,” to name a few. (If I’m alone in my car, it might be Pearl Jam’s “Rearview Mirror.” If I’m baking cookies with my sister, it might be a stunning acapella rendition of “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls.)

Six a.m. often finds me on a trail, exchanging barbs and gossip with three or four other runners, all of sporting headlamps.

My college career spanned four states and, ahem, “several” years.

As a kid, I ached to play ice hockey, like my brothers. Playing on the pond with Dylan allows me to retroactively live the dream.

I find that exercise--strenuous or otherwise--is best concluded with hearty food and good beer.

I have an uncanny ability to find running and hiking partners who share this philosophy.

One of my favorite decompression activities is stacking wood ( I usually do this wearing Dad’s old flannel jacket).

I have driven the Trans-Canada and Alaska Highways twice: once with the man I thought I wanted to marry (who, soon afterward, left me for a remote Alaskan village), and once with the man I married (who seems to want to stick around).

All I want for Christmas is a new mountain bike.

I stay up way, way too late. In my post-dinner, post-bedtime story, post-lunch making exhaustion, I occasionally find that the words and images just won’t come.

Which reminds me: I am quite often overly self-critical.

And lastly, I know when it’s time to sign off and enjoy a glass of wine with my husband.

in the land of nod

2010-12-07T21:41:00.003-05:00

This blog post is one of a series of responses to writing prompts provided by the authors at Reverb 10, a daily writing project that asks writers to reflect on the year. Get on the bus! Just click here.

Prompt: Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011? (Writing prompt courtesy of Cali Harris.)

Since about the late 90’s, I have been prone to spiritual wanderlust. I was raised Catholic, and until about age fourteen or fifteen, Catholicism had a reasonably important place in my life: I said ten minutes of prayers before getting into bed every night, because I was afraid that, if I neglected to pay heed to God, Jesus, Mary, and even Joseph, my soul was fair game for Satan. This pretty much summarizes my pre-adolescent piety: I prayed, I went to confession, I made communion and confirmation, because I was terrified of the consequences of not fulfilling these sacraments. I could practically feel the flames at the foot of my bed, just waiting for me to give voice to my latent doubt.

A college obsession with existentialist philosophy cultivated the seeds of skepticism that had begun to sprout in my late teenage years. In retrospect, I probably found atheism intriguing because it absolved me of any kind of responsibility. I am a recovering commitment-phobe, and so a religion that required me to attend church every week OR ELSE was one that would surely lead to my spiritual demise.

From what I have been told, one’s experience with a religion like Catholicism depends so much on one’s particular church, and on the minister’s ability to deliver a homily that is engaging and relevant beyond the walls of the sanctuary. We had no such minister at St. Mary’s. The upshot was that, when I left home, I also left the church. After ten years of CCD, I knew little more about the disciples, the life of Jesus, or the Bible than my friends who had not attended Religious Education classes. It was only in graduate school, when I took a course on Milton’s Paradise Lost and was required to read three or four exciting theological texts, that I began to understand what I had missed, at least in terms of the stories behind the faith. Progressive Catholics like my friend Lori have introduced me to a vibrant, intelligent, and rich Catholicism I never knew existed (I can’t help but think how much more I could have taken from The Red Tent had I been exposed to the verses behind the fiction). And though Catholicism is not likely to ever become my (re)chosen faith, I have a much deeper understanding of why it continues to appeal to so many.

For most of my adult life, I have been without a religion. I have found holiness and metaphysical beauty in nature, in certain people, in special moments. And for a long time, I believed that this was enough. But when Dad died two and a half years ago, and I tried to explain death to Dylan, I found that I could not do this without referring to God, or heaven. And Dylan was understandably perplexed. Later, he asked Bryan, “Is Nod going to take you and Daddy, too?”

“Nod?” Bryan asked.

“Yeah, Nod. He took Grampy. Is he going to take you?”

It struck me that I could not expect Dylan to grasp this concept, inasmuch as any of us can grasp it, when he (God) only appeared in our lives as some ominous force who randomly plucks people from our lives. Those prayers I said as a child—those rote recitations—did provide comfort, even as they nurtured my fear of eternal damnation. I needed something for my children that was devoid of dogma, but that would provide them with a sense of spirituality—and preferably a spiritual community. And this was something I also needed for myself. I have been, for a long time, a solo practitioner of a quasi-faith that blends Buddhism, Protestantism, and some loose translation of Native American spirituality. And Catholic guilt. I haven’t lost my fear of Satan, though I might call him by a different name (or names).

The autumn after Dad died, I did some “church research,” and I found a spiritual house that looked promising: the Unitarian Universalist Society of New Haven. I had been interested in Unitarianism for years—since the time of that Milton class I mentioned. My professor—an extraordinarily spiritual and engaging man by the name of Andrew Barnaby—was a Unitarian, and had found, it seemed to me, a sensible way to reconcile the differences (and similarities) between major world religions. He told me not to “shun Catholicism,” but to think of it as a “fulfilling mythology.”

I don’t mean to make heretical waves (I’m aware of the seeming heresy in that last statement about mythology!) ,or to dismiss anyone’s faith. And this is what I have come to love about USNH: more than any other faith I have tried to embrace, it has taught me tolerance and humility. It has taught me that spirituality, for me, lies not in the primary text, or even in the sermons (though the sermons at USNH are quite amazing), but in action—in social responsibility and awareness. In the lived version of whatever our faith may be. Though the Catholic part of me (I think there is a part of me, however small, that will always be Catholic) struggles with the somewhat abstract nature of the faith itself (try explaining this to a kid: well, Jewish people believe x, and Catholics believe y, and Muslims believe z, and so forth—and we just borrow from all of them, and maybe throw in a little Bruce Springsteen, too), I feel blessed to have found a place of worship that is in near-perfect harmony with my spiritual needs. I don’t know that I will ever label myself a Unitarian—or put myself squarely in any religious category—but I will call USNH my spiritual home.

love cakes and messy music

2010-12-06T20:32:00.005-05:00

Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? (Writing prompt courtesy of Gretchen Rubin.)

Apple cupcakes. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, cinnamon, nutmeg, and four shredded McIntosh apples, picked from Norton Brothers family orchard.

End-of-semester stress almost tempted me to purchase *gulp* a box of cake mix. I was even ambling up and down that aisle in the grocery store, pausing every few steps to consider (“delicious cupcakes in just minutes!”), and then re-consider, and then consider again. But I have been making these apple cupcakes for Lexi’s birthday every year for the last four years, and in the end I refused to deprive myself (and, of course, my daughter) of the heavenly aroma of late autumn that is the smell of fresh-baked apple cupcakes.

For someone who doesn’t often venture far beyond the Toll House classic when it comes to baking, this recipe—a Martha Stewart gem!—is somewhat labor intensive. Peeling and shredding the apples takes a bit more effort than adding eggs and oil to a mix. But it wasn’t so much the labor that made the end result so satisfying (though of course this was a contributing factor). The real satisfaction was in the niche: in having carved out an hour in which to create something for someone (in this case, a very special someone). It was the time spent in choosing the right cupcake: the right seasonal fruit; the right blend of spices; the right treat for the occasion. So often time constraints (and my inherent lack of organization) force me to be haphazard in my approach to completing a task. Mixing the apple into the batter was like a zen exercise. I think now understand why baking bread is, for my friend Kristen, something of a religious practice. She has talked about the catharsis that comes from kneading the dough: the motion of the fingers, the smell of the yeast, the pleasure in watching the bread take form afterward. I don’t plan to pack up my bread machine, but I did see her point as I mixed.

Once, after my friend Teresa had given birth to her second child, I sent her a batch of cookies. She responded gleefully that it was “like getting a package of love from [my] kitchen.” I am hardly Martha Stewart, or even Betty Crocker for that matter, but I did feel the love as I mixed the batter (by hand—because I bake cakes so infrequently that I don’t even own an electric mixer. Note to self: electric mixer before next December 2 rolls around).

And in case you were wondering: no, I don’t plan to become a Buddhist Baker, nor will I be writing blog posts about finding nirvana in scrubbing dishes. In fact, to segue into the second part of the writing prompt, if I could clear more time, I wouldn’t spend it in the kitchen. That would be like spending summer vacation in a classroom.

No, if I had the time, I would make music.

Once upon a time I could play keyboards. Not well, but I played. I had a few Beatles songs committed to memory. Some Bach for Beginners. A Bon Jovi song or two (hey, it was the eighties. And if you must know, I can still play “Home Sweet Home” by some 80’s hair band—maybe the one with Brett Michaels?).

Every evening, around 9:30, Bryan reaches over and grabs his guitar from its perch beside the sofa, and he makes music. Sometimes it’s the same Bob Dylan song for fifteen weeks (can you say “Tangled Up in Blue”?), but he plays that guitar every night, without fail. When we travel, the guitar travels too (in miniature form). There is always room: in the car, in the backpack (yes, the pack guitar, may it rest in peace, saw many mountain tops). In Bryan’s evening.

A couple of years ago, Bryan bought me a guitar—an electric guitar, because it’s allegedly easier to play (don’t have to stretch those little fingers so far, or strum so hard on the strings). I was half-excited, half dubious. I’ve always thought it would be cool to learn guitar (not only because female guitarists epitomize cool, but also because playing music with Bryan would be a much more exciting way to spend an evening than doing the crossword puzzle while he learns a new tune. And he has let me know on more than one occasion that he craves musical accompaniment).

I devoted a couple of weeks to learning the scale, and to playing an open F and a few chords I’ve since forgotten, but the truth was, I really wasn’t in a place to start learning an instrument from scratch. I was just starting to write fiction again, and there was also this crazy desire to read something (a novel? Some poetry?) for pleasure. At the risk of sounding like a 6-year-old, I just didn’t feel like learning anything when I finally had time to sit down at 9:30 or 10:00.

When I signed Dylan up for piano lessons a few weeks ago, I secretly hoped that his playing would rekindle my own desire to play, and to learn (and re-learn). And so far, this has been the case. The Yamaha has been relocated from its corner across from our bed (where it often served as a shelf for laundry) to a place of honor in the front room. Dylan and his sister play “duets” (yesterday morning I woke to Lexi playing random keys while Dylan sang “Hey Jude”), and I hack away at “Let it Be” (a song that will likely be my very own “Tangled Up in Blue”). It’s not pretty, but the kids don’t really know that.

So, if I can clear some time, you know where to find me. Just listen for the three chords. There are only three in that song, right?

This post is part of a daily writing project called Reverb 10.

letting go of longing

2010-12-05T21:25:00.002-05:00

Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (Writing prompt courtesy of Alice Bradley)

I don’t know that I have ever completely let go of anything. There are boxes of old letters, cards, stories, books, and clothes in the barn that serve as a testament to my sentimentalism. But I am happy to say that I am in recovery, and my rehabilitation involves not only getting rid of yellowed letters from boyfriends who never really meant that much to me, anyway; it also involves letting go in the spiritual sense. This year, I attempted to let go of longing.

I have spoken (and written) often of my desire to be elsewhere, to live elsewhere—more specifically, in Vermont, or New Hampshire, or in some state where the mountains are higher than 2,000 feet. When Bryan and I first got together, this was our plan: we would save some money, look for work, and relocate in some cool town out west, at the foot of say, Mount Hood, or Mount Rainier, or Mount Shasta. I would take Flattop Mountain in Anchorage, but that’s too radical for my Connecticut-born-and-bred hubby.

It didn’t work out that way. Obviously. And location, or relocation, has been the subject of more than a few heated discussions. I can’t be my fully realized self here, I would insist. Sense of place is everything to me. I’m withering. Yeah, I can be pretty dramatic when I get going. And it’s not purely for the sake of drama: I really believe that I was meant to be in the mountains, as corny as it sounds.

But how can I spend too much time brooding when I left the mountains to be here? I could argue that I’m here because Bryan is here. I left Vermont to be here. But there are many folks for whom sense of place is so strong that no person could ever detract from their dreams of being in Alaska, or Seattle, or wherever they happen to be. So really, I’m here because I chose to be here, and though I can’t deny that I would rather be somewhere else, longing is a dangerous and destructive activity.

Instead of longing, I’m hoping, planning, acting. I’m cleaning up the clutter and working on my resume. I’m encouraging Bryan (who swears he really does want to move) to do the same. I’m putting the word out, and friends are responding with job prospects. In short, I’m trying to get us in a position to move (our barn is filled to the brim with cars, car parts, furniture, boxes of memorabilia, and probably mice), rather than lamenting the fact that my friends are disappearing to Utah and New Hampshire and even Brooklyn (which is a very cool borough, though not a place I would choose to live).

And in letting go of longing, I’m discovering a tremendous amount of beauty right here in the Shire. I’m a mile from trails in almost every direction. I’m a short drive from the shore. In the fall, I can look out my window and see a myriad of reds, golds, and oranges. The mountains are smallish, but the trails are rocky and deliciously challenging on a mountain bike. Guess it ain’t so bad.

Brooding is boring. Longing is lame. I’m moving so I can move on.

This post is part of a daily writing project. For more information, click here.

fluttering and dancing in the breeze*

2010-12-04T21:46:00.008-05:00

Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Writing prompt courtesy of Jeffrey Davis)

Will anyone be surprised if this post is about the trail?

I was talking with a friend recently who was extolling the benefits of a personal trainer. Her trainer, she told me, had taught her to maximize her time at the gym: by doing a combination of squats, push-ups, cardio, and the like, she could achieve the desired result—toned arms and legs—in the minimum amount of time. “You don’t really need to do that much cardio,” she assured me.

To be honest, I, too, can be somewhat obsessive about maintaining a certain level of fitness, and can occasionally be seen doing dips on the kitchen chair while my kids are playing in the next room, or on the floor doing crunches while watching “The Office.”

But running, for me, is not about the fulfillment of a fitness quota. It’s not about the minimum amount of cardio for the maximum benefit. It’s the call of the trail that beckons me from my slumber at 5:15 on a Tuesday morning. Negotiating the rocks and roots at Sleeping Giant in the pre-sunrise mist is exhilarating—a test of mental and physical agility.

This morning, Mount Sanford was aglow as we approached. My leap across the stream fell short, and I emerged with a soaked right foot. On the next ascent, a red-tailed hawk soared overhead. Last week, it was a Great Blue Heron, in almost the very same spot. Once, in Anchorage, it was a moose, who charged and then veered off again, leaving me in a trembling heap in the brush, dumbstruck by my slim escape .

You can set your program to “cross country skiing” on the elliptical; you can flip through a nature magazine on the treadmill in your living room, but you won’t see a red fox, or a snow-covered spruce, or a crunchy carpet of red and gold leaves, at your local gym.

And the pleasure increases tenfold when I see a rainbow or a fiery sunset through the eyes of my kids. Last spring, we met up with three other families at Gouveia Vineyards in Wallingford, and had a dinner picnic on their gorgeous lawn, adjacent to the expansive fields of grapes. For a few precious seconds, as the grown-ups finished dessert and sipped red wine, the kids—all eight of them—were rapt, standing or sitting in silence as the orange-red sun set over the hills. It was holy. After the spell had been broken, we jokingly imagined their conversation: “Hey, man, we don’t need toys, eh?” “No way, dude. This is it. Right here.”

A fantasy, yes. And yet, a summer evening at the vineyard, or a late afternoon at Brooksvale Park, brings Dylan and Lexi much more joy than the thrill of acing the slolem course on Wii ski. The wonder is in their laughter, and in the sound of their deep breathing after a long dirty day of play. And I cultivate this wonder—in my kids, and also in myself—when I come home on a Saturday morning with my legs caked in mud and my eyes and soul radiant from an hour in the woods. Yeah, this is it. Right here.

*William Wordsworth

This post is part of a daily writing project called Reverb 10. For more information, click here: www.reverb10.com

race to the clouds

2010-12-03T22:42:00.007-05:00

Prompt: Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Writing prompt courtesy of Ali Edwards.)

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
Eyes full of sweat, lungs burning, arms
Taut muscles flexed hands against stone
Alive in the struggle
Exuberant in that brief teetering
Moment on top of the world.

So presumptuous to think of Sisyphus now.
This punishment was decreed by no god
(Or was it?)
And yet I do think Sisyphus must have beheld,
Even as his body moaned,
Fields of phosphorescent snow in summer.
Must have smiled as his breath
Tasted frost and ice: a whisper
Hinting at his journey’s end.

Sisyphus happy in the absurd agony
Of groaning calves, wailing quads.
Suffering is the origin of consciousness.
We choose our boulder with open eyes.

This post is part of a daily writing project called Reverb 10. For more information, click here: www.reverb10.com

the one thing

2010-12-02T23:09:00.006-05:00

Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

What do I do each day that doesn’t contribute to my writing? Laundry, cooking, stacking wood, letting the effing dog in and out about seventeen times an hour. I look longingly at the laptop as I pass it by on my way to put away yet another pile of clothes (meanwhile, the washing machine drones on), and I think about the characters in my story-in-progress, two of whom have been suspended in mid-conversation, in a drafty living room, for over two weeks.

The “thing” I do each day that doesn’t contribute to my writing is the inadvertent avoidance of writing. The privileging of the mundane over the creative. And this is so often unsatisfying, and on so many levels. Rarely, if ever, do I put the last item of clothing away with the self-satisfied smile of a job well-done. Once in a while I will admire my freshly vacuumed carpets, but this only adds to my irritation at the dog, who sees a clean carpet as an invitation to leave snippets of black fur (or worse).

Today, when I happened upon this Re-verb challenge (a creative prompt and a promise to write a blog entry every day for the month of December—thanks, Elizabeth Howard), I was excited, thinking, “This is just the kick in the tush I need.” And then I spent a good portion of my evening (after the lasagna had been eaten and the dishes put away) checking in on Facebook to see what kinds of exciting endeavors my creative friends were embarking upon. “Cool,” I would think. “Wish I had the time for that.”

This post is part of a daily writing project called #reverb10. Find out more & join in this creative exercise at http://www.reverb10.com/.

birthday poem

2010-10-15T14:38:00.004-04:00

October 14 (for Michael)

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
Robert Frost

Beyond the window the maples shiver.
Bony arms reach up in prayer:
A benediction for the mottled and wind weary
Lying lifeless among the needles.

Has it been only days since
Red and gold hands reached out to the sun,
A promise for the beholders
Gazing hopefully in spite of the season.

In the gloaming, a single leaf
Coils its brittle veins, and waits
For the last breath of autumn.

living with suburban syndrome

2010-09-07T11:18:00.004-04:00

Please excuse the mess. I don’t have much time to clean during the semester, and you know, well, with me working part-time, we haven’t really had much money to do cosmetic repairs. And our house is so tiny that it feels cluttered. But please, come on over, just don’t judge me.

This is the usual disclaimer I give when I invite someone over, especially someone who hasn’t known me very long. Even as the words are tumbling from my mouth, I feel their insincerity, and I am immediately disgusted with myself for feeling as though I need to provide an explanation for the state of my carpets, or kitchen, or self, for that matter. No one has imposed this on me, mind you; it’s just that, despite my outward denouncement of “Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” I somehow find myself feeling, on occasion, that instead of refusing to keep up with them, that I have somehow failed to keep up with them, and this invariably leads me down a path into what I have often termed “Suburb Syndrome.” The symptoms include: feeling as though you are the Mistress of Mediocrity; seeing blemishes and disrepair in every room; diagnosing your child with every disorder known to the DSM. And so on. Suburb Syndrome is actually a more advanced form of Grass is Always Greener Syndrome, and often with consequences more dire.

Last week, I reconnected with my friend Elizabeth Howard, writer of my favorite blog, “Letters from a Small State.” We talked about getting our kids together for some playtime (I’m boycotting the use of the word “playdate”), and she suggested, at first, bringing her “brood” over to meet “my brood.” I said sure. This, of course, was immediately followed by the above disclaimer.

As it turned out, Elizabeth had to be home that morning, and so we were invited to her home instead. In her email, she said, “You are going to love our house. We have a tire swing in the backyard.”

I was immediately struck by this comment. I am surrounded by so many Sufferers of Suburb Syndrome, and so this celebration of Elizabeth’s own home took me by surprise. And at the risk of sounding sappy, it cheered my soul. To be quite honest, I love my house. And though I might provide endless excuses as to why it’s a mess, the truth is, I hate cleaning. If I have failed at anything, I don’t think it’s at being a parent or a “housekeeper” (ugh!); I’ve failed to look in between the piles of clutter, where Dylan has constructed a space ship out of Legos, or Alexa’s fairies are on a quest to find their giant friends in Middle-Earth. Where forts are being constructed out of chairs and blankets, and Hot Wheels cars are lined up in elaborate patterns. Yeah, there’s a stain on the carpet, and the tile in the kitchen (which Bryan and I have dubbed “shitoleum”) is peeling in the corners, but living in a Provincial Palace would mean sacrificing so many of the hobbies and activities that keep me sane.

And the truth is, my house really isn’t all that messy. And it really isn’t all that neat, either. But it’s bright and open, and in the yard is a barn that Bryan built with his own hands. Just across from the tree swing are two Adirondack chairs, with a table in between for your tea. Come on over; you’ll love it.

housecamping in colorado

2010-08-15T09:35:00.002-04:00

In planning this trip to Colorado, my first visit in 8 years, my visions usually involved waking up on a peak somewhere in one of the national forests, a steaming cup of camp coffee in my gloved hands, my breath coming out in icy wisps. The kids curled up in their sleeping bags, awestruck at the view of the continental divide just outside their tent.

So I’m almost embarrassed to say that we have been in Colorado a week now and have spent every night in a bed, with access to showers, stoves, Legos, trampolines, a swimming pool, and even television. Haven’t had a cup of camp coffee since last Saturday. Funny how my Colorado has changed now that I have kids in tow. After dragging them across the country for five days, all they really want at the end of the journey is to play, preferably with other kids. So, while I’m really missing the backcountry, I am so grateful for the hospitality of our friends, the Lentzes and the Nevins, who have basically provided us with a home base while we’ve been here.

And housecamping has a secondary benefit: it allows me to pretend, for a little while, that I’m a Coloradoan again.

Despite the luxury accommodations, we’ve done plenty of playing in the mountains: we’ve hiked in Boulder and in Golden Gate Canyon State Park; we’ve biked up the canyon on the creek path; we’ve pushed the Westfalia up mountain roads that taxed her poor old engine. But we’ve also had days by the pool, days where the kids rode bikes around the neighborhood while we chatted with friends. It’s not the rugged Colorado of my daydreams, but even this family-friendly version has been splendid for my soul. I’ve missed this place, and in many ways, it still feels like home.

And we’re going camping tomorrow.

Scribbles from the Road, Volume I

2010-08-08T12:03:00.004-04:00

(typed in haste, with many distractions, from a hotel just outside Denver. . . .)

Day 1: Tuesday, August 3
Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, W. Virginia, Virginia

An automotive glitch set us back two days. Bryan, who had been eager to get on the road as quickly as possible, ended up spending the weekend under the van. We also had to wait for a part that was not going to arrive until Monday. We were both sullen and anxious. The kids, fortunately, were oblivious, and were surprisingly patient when we told them we wouldn’t be leaving just yet.

I tried not to dwell on the bad luck that seems to have surrounded our last few summer vacations. An uplifting call from my friend Lori, who advised me to take control of the situation by visualizing the destination (the Rockies) and cleansing my soul of negative energy, definitely galvanized me out of the doldrums and provided me with a renewed sense of empowerment. We’re going to Colorado. That’s it.

So, finally, on Tuesday morning, we piled into the van (we said goodbye to Sasha the night before; she’ll be staying at Bryan’s mom’s while we’re on the road. She’s done the cross-country trek and doesn’t need to do it again). Dylan and Lexi were much better passengers than we could ever have hoped for, amusing themselves with activity books, coloring, singing, and listening to my Ipod (a novelty for Dylan, who couldn’t get enough of being in control of the music). Before the trip, I downloaded several books on CD, and “Magic Tree House: the Musical” kept them occupied for at least two hours.

We had lunch on the campus of Penn State—Hazleton, which looked as if it had probably been an estate once upon a time. The kids played Nerf basketball and ran off some road energy.

In planning our trip, Bryan expressed a desire to take the Blue Ridge Parkway. Anxious to be in Colorado for as many days as possible, I put up some resistance. Driving through the Shendandoah Valley later on Tuesday evening, however, I had to admit that it was an excellent idea, even if it meant more days on the road. It was raining, but still the views opened up each time we passed a vista. A long, twisty road took us to Matthews Arm Campground in Shenandoah National Park. We arrived just after 7pm, road-weary but happy to have made it to the first destination on our TripTik. Bryan had thought to bring the kids’ scooters, and these provided a much-needed outlet. The campground, which was wooded, rustic, and quiet, was a lovely spot, and the kids were able to do several laps before dinner. We passed several deer who were so habituated that they barely looked up as we passed by. We could have reached out and touched them. I hoped the bears weren’t quite so friendly.

Day 2: Wednesday, August/4
Virginia, West Virginia
Long day of driving. Left our campsite in Shenandoah at 6:30 a.m. Had breakfast at the park’s Visitor’s Center, which offered up a brief panoramic view of the Blue Ridge Mountains before the clouds closed in. I’m happy to report that the Big Sky coffee press mugs Bryan and I bought for our trip to Utah in 2001 still make the best cups of camp coffee around. Nothing like a few grounds in your joe to make you feel burly.

The westy huffed and puffed over the hills (we hit a low of 30mph on the highway at one point), but she came through it all okay. We took a detour for lunch, one we came to regret. We were led to believe, perhaps by our own optimism, that Lake Moomaw/Gathright Dam was a short drive from the exit. As it turned out, we spent almost an hour getting there, down country roads and up a canyon. A wizened old cowboy pointed us in the right direction, and when we finally arrived at the lake, it was pretty but eerie. Completely deserted. The attendant in the Visitor’s Center seemed unused to company, especially a bunch of Yankees in a VW van, and so he stood and watched us awkwardly for a few minutes before asking us where we were headed. We had lunch at the lake, as well as a brief swim (when we arrived, we were the only people there, which I took to be a bad sign), then were back on the road for a long afternoon.

The kids, especially Alexa, looked roughed up. Somehow we imagined they’d sleep during the day and play at night, like desert animals. But Dylan can battle sleep like the best of warriors, and he’s very adept at keeping his sister awake, too. I finally gave in and let them watch “Toy Story” on my laptop, which had just enough juice to through the DVD.

Big storm rolled in as we were looking for a grocery store. Ducked out of the van and into a mall for shelter.

Storm passed quickly. Pulled into a KOA in Milton, W. Virginia, around 6:45 pm. When Bryan and I did our cross-country wedding trip eight years ago, I never would have dreamed of staying in a family campground, but as much as I prefer primitive camping, I have to admit that such places have made all the difference on this trip. The promise of a playground and a swim at the end of a long ride has definitely made the miles bearable for the little ones (and, consequently, for us).

Day 3: Thursday, August 5 .
W. Virginia, Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois
Churches, adult superstores, churches, crosses, adult superstores. Wal-Mart. Home Depot. Welcome to Middle America! Uneventful day. Driving. Kids a little more restless. Had lunch in Louisville, Kentucky.

The air conditioning gave out, which changed the dynamic of the trip. The kids, amazingly, stayed positive. I have been devising scavenger hunts for them, and so they spend at least part of their days looking for various license plates, billboards, colors, restaurants, etc.

Pulled into an odd little family campground in Illinois around 6pm. The requisite playground occupied the kids while Bryan cooked dinner (scrambled eggs and homemade bread) and I went for a short run. Hot. Buggy. Saw an owl in the nearby nature preserve; he swooped down over a field, then perched in a tree, watching me.

After dinner, Dylan and I had a pleasant walk by the light of our headlamps. The campground is on a lake, and we walked down a path behind the tent sites and saw, under the moonlight, a small canoe with two men fishing. Dylan definitely shares my love for road trips, and we talked about doing a backpacking trip in the fall. He made many observations ( the boy can talk, just ask anyone who knows him) about the people in the campground, the different types of RVs, the lake, the cabins, the bats swooping over our heads, the trip. Whoo! No wonder he fights sleep so tenaciously. So much to think about.

Hot night; did not sleep well. Planned to leave early in the a.m. to beat St. Louis traffic.

More later. Kids harrassing me to get moving, already!

most likely you go your way and i'll go mine

2010-06-03T16:03:00.004-04:00

“How could you do that to your children?”

This comment was made by a friend after I told her that I had taken my kids, who were 2 and 4 at the time, hiking at Sleeping Giant on a “frigid” 34-degree day. The phrasing was not only judgmental, it was borderline accusatory: there was the implication that I had subjected my children to some form of torture, a dreary trudge up some cold and lonely peak, rather than a winter ramble up a 1.2-mile carriage road. In reality, they were barely aware of the cold, bundled as they were in layers of thermal cotton and fleece, and though I confess that Lexi’s toes were cold at the end, everyone survived, and DCF did not come and pack my kids up and send them off to a better home.

While my friend’s comment did not quite cause me to second-guess my (obviously questionable) judgment (when I worked with children in Anchorage, we went outside every day, and often the temps were below zero), I was bothered, and have continued to be bothered, by the amount of unsolicited comments and “free advice” doled out so liberally by other mothers, even those who call themselves friends. We insist that our children understand diversity and recognize that there are different value systems within a particular society, yet when it comes to parenting, we toss out the filters, and even go so far as to suggest that a perfectly competent mother who clearly cares for her children has somehow committed an act of neglect or abuse by adhering to a moral or philosophical code that is outside the mainstream.

As someone who treats most minor ailments and illnesses with natural remedies, I’m used to this sort of judgment, and even understand it, to a certain degree. When our kids are suffering, we want to alleviate their pain, and so why wouldn’t we give Tylenol, or antibiotics, if they’re available? What kind of sadist would deprive her children of the right to over-the-counter medicine?

This is a logical argument, and I usually try to explain that some afflictions, like ear infections, often heal themselves, and can’t be treated effectively by antibiotics because they are viral, rather than bacterial. Or that natural remedies often strengthen the body’s ability to heal itself. And I don’t judge parents who do choose a more orthodox course in treating illness; as I said, it’s logical, and rational. But so is my method, I think. And I do give Tylenol, too—or did, before the recent recall.

The medical issue aside, I’ve come to the conclusion that the “judgment tic” is less about concern for the allegedly abused or neglected child than it is about insecurity: we are all, to some extent, insecure about the choices we make, and this puts us on the defensive when it comes to parenting issues. Breastmilk or formula? Cloth or disposable? Camp or no camp? More activities or fewer? Scheduled playdates or spontaneous play?

I have another friend a great parent, who believes wholeheartedly in “kindergarten enrichment,” as many parents do. Here in Cheshire, we have half-day kindergarten, and many parents feel this is insufficient, and so they supplement with afternoon preschool or some other scheduled program. To be fair, many parents choose this option because they are in need of child care, and kindergartners are bussed from school to their program, allowing the parent to work a full day.

I am fortunate enough to have a schedule that allows me to pick Lexi up from pre-school at 11:30, and then to get Dylan off the bus at noon. I say “fortunate,” but this is also a choice for me. For me. I’ll emphasize the personal nature of the choice, because let’s face it, people, we all have different approaches to mothering, and, news flash, with few exceptions, they are equally effective. I’ve tried staying at home full-time; I missed being in the classroom. So my schedule works for me: I teach part-time, I’m home most of the time. Some women are fantastic stay-at-home moms: I’ll use my dear friend Kristen as an example. She bakes all of her bread (and most of her cereal), she does cool crafts, her kids are outdoors in every season. One day last year, she was babysitting her friend’s two kids, in addition to caring for her own three (the oldest of the children in this episode was 5 at the time). She took all 5 hiking IN THE RAIN (no need to call DCF; it was spring). Dylan, Alexa and I met her at Brooksvale Park for lunch, and all of us had lunch under a tree while the rain came down. The kids were covered in mud, and they loved it. A year later, Lexi still says, “Remember that day we were dancing in the rain?” And I should mention that Kristen still finds plenty of time to feed her brain, get involved in the community, and take time out for herself.

Would this be the perfect scenario for everyone? NO. Kristen’s patience far outweighs mine, and I know this, which is why I work three mornings a week. Some women have worked long and hard at establishing their careers; should they be exempt from motherhood because they put in longer hours than I do? I have friends who work full time and who know that they are better moms because of this.

Back to kindergarten enrichment. The friend mentioned above asked me, at the beginning of the school year, where I planned to send Dylan in the afternoons. I said I did not need to send him anywhere, because I would be home. “I know,” she responded, “ but it’s not about child care, it’s about giving them all the education they can get.” I said that Dylan wouldn’t be idle; we read, play games, hike. Oh, and there’s the p-word: PLAY.

My friend conceded that I do manage to do a lot with my kids. But then came the backhand: “And I know that you’re someone who, if you find that Dylan is falling behind—and he might, because the kindergarten teachers have to teach to the majority, and the majority of kids are in enrichment—you’ll send him to an after-school program.”

Other parents have echoed this concern about what “idle time” in the afternoons might mean: “We’re not educators. Johnny is too old to be sitting on the couch all day.” Why is Johnny sitting on the couch? Does every ounce of our kids’ “education” have to come from professionals? And don’t even get me started on the fact that privileging “enrichment” programs perpetuates an elitism within the public school system.

Motherhood is likely the most ass-kicking job any of us have ever had, so why do we make the “workplace” so competitive? Why are we so quick to dish out judgment rather than support? I’d have to wager that, our human shortcomings aside, most of us, at any given moment, are trying to be the best possible parents we can be. We make choices based on our values, and unless your values include drinking an entire bottle of wine every day at noon while your kids play violent video games, most of our kids are probably going to turn out okay, even pretty well, some even spectacular. So, come on, people, let’s lay off, listen, and most important, let’s take it easy on each other. ‘Kay?

As Yet Untitled

2010-05-20T08:55:00.001-04:00

Every May, when classes have finished and I have had at least a week to catch my breath, I set to the daunting task of de-cluttering. Never a slave to organization, I invariably find old journals, papers, letters, cards, and books I had forgotten I’d bought stuffed into the most unlikely nooks and crannies. An unfinished short story sleeps restlessly under some cassettes, mixes for various moods, made in my twenties. Pictures from a hiking trip yellow and curl under old cross-country rosters. Snapshots and snippets of different lives pasted together to construct one life.

Once, in a writing group, someone gave a prompt to “describe your life in one word.” I wrote, “periphery.” Yesterday, using two words to accomplish the same feat, I wrote “perpetually passé.” I often feel on the verge of something exciting, but I come to the party late. I’m surrounded by people who do exciting things: writers, artists, activists, ultra-marathoners. People with focus. And while I run, write, parent, play a little music, I’m forever distracted, and therefore projects remain unfinished, disappearing into drawers.

But this past January, I vowed to be more mindful, whatever the task: dishes, bathing children, gardening. To treat even the most mundane task as a creative act. During the school year, when hours of my time are spent commenting on freshman essays, the creative fluids are squeezed dry, and at the end of the day all I want to do is put my feet up and read Tolkien, or Mary Oliver, or nothing at all. But May has arrived once again, and I don’t want to let the summer slip by without feeling as though I’ve accomplished something: organized closets, ripe vegetables in the garden, meals from scratch. But, more than anything else, I want to write again. And I don’t even want to think about a finished project yet; I just want to know that I have spent a portion of each day putting words on paper, however banal.

Yesterday, going through drawers, I found a stack of papers from a class I took in grad school called “Problems in the Profession,” taught by one of my favorite professors, Philip Baruth (a sometimes commentator on NPR). On the front of my portfolio, he wrote, “You’re one of those people who seems to be already very much in the English profession, Tricia. . . . In brief, you present ample evidence that you can handle the world outside UVM. . . .. More than that, your work suggests to me that you’ll do very, very well in academia. . . .” After the initial surprise at this brief encounter with my former self, I had to chuckle. Even though I teach at a university, I couldn’t be farther from “academia,” at least in the sense that Professor Baruth intended. When I do have time to write, I’d much rather write fiction, or creative nonfiction, than do a Lacanian reading of Paradise Lost (though admittedly, when I finished reading Tolkien last winter, I immediately went to the library and checked out a book of critical essays on Lord of the Rings). And yet, there was something encouraging in this meeting with Grad Student Tricia, and I spent a few minutes having coffee with her, if only to get a sense of the energy and fervor with which I had once sat down to the computer, or to my journal, or to a table at Muddy Waters in Burlington with one of my fellow students.

Motherhood provides a convenient, and even legitimate, excuse for falling into a pattern of creative apathy—no, I don’t like that word. For languishing, for putting the writing self aside. And my friend Kathy, an accomplished teacher, writer, and mother, has convinced me that it’s okay to give ourselves permission not to complete a piece of fiction, or an essay, or an article, while school is in session. She has completed a draft of her novel each summer for the past few summers, and is currently shopping for an agent.

I like this method; it makes sense. But the danger, for me, lies not only in not writing, but in not staying awake. Once upon a time, I would go for a run, observe the exact position of the sun and the trees as I passed, and reach for my journal the moment I had finished the obligatory post-run glass of water. Now my tendency is to put the journal at the bottom of the priority list, and the memory of the sun and the trees shrivels, along with the words to describe them.

But that’s why I’m here, this morning, and why I’ll be here again tomorrow. And hopefully the day after that.

Indulging Childish Fancies

2010-01-08T11:51:00.004-05:00

When I was eleven or twelve, I learned that our city, Waltham, had a girls’ youth hockey team, the Lady Hawks. I was intrigued. Both of my brothers were hockey players, and my parents had made sure that all of us were skating by the age of two or three. Ponds still froze in those days, I mean really froze, and we would spend entire days on the ice, stopping only for lunch or snacks (and, on rare occasions, for freezing hands and toes). I had figure skates, not hockey skates, and to be honest, I spent more time working on twirls than on dribbling pucks, but still, the idea of hockey excited me. I read my brothers’ Hockey Digests. I knew the lingo (“Ray Bourque had a hat trick last night!”) And every Christmas, Santa would put Bruins tickets in our stockings, and as I went to sleep on Christmas Eve, I would cross my fingers and hope for a game against the Canadiens, Boston’s rival. In the morning, when I pulled the ticket out of my stocking, I would scan it right away for the red “C,” Montreal’s logo.

I’m not sure how I found out about the Lady Hawks, because we had no internet access back then, and we weren’t inundated with hockey flyers at school, as kids are today. I think I saw a picture in our newspaper. I showed it to my Dad. “Dad!” I yelled, nearly giddy. “There’s a girls’ team! I can to play hockey!”

My dad chuckled, pushing the paper away. “You’re not playing hockey,” he said, quietly but with obvious resolve.

I frowned. “Yes, I am. See? There’s a team!”

He was adamant. I wasn’t going to play. It wasn’t a girls’ game. “But you let me play baseball,” I argued. “Why can’t I play hockey?”

He was growing frustrated. “You just can’t, that’s all!”

I remember the conversation ending with me declaring that I was going to play hockey “every chance I get,” to which my father replied with a bemused half-smile.

Some time during my college years I lost interest in hockey, mostly because I was occupied with Shakespeare and Fielding and French camp, but also because the game, at least in the NHL, had lost its purpose. Hockey seemed to occur between brawls, and after the departure of players like Wayne Gretzky, the emphasis seemed to be on punching rather than passing, on fists rather than finesse. Skill was incidental. Moreover, despite the fact that they were making shameful salaries for playing a game they loved, the players often went on strike, and consequently, so did I: I was done, I stated flatly, with the NHL.

I never actually played ice hockey. I joined a girls’ floor hockey league in college, and every now and then I would play street hockey with my brothers, but mostly, I came to consider hockey a game for kids—kids and men who played at the crack of dawn or after bedtime. After I had earned my master’s degree and started teaching, it was comical to imagine donning shoulder pads, knee pads, a helmet, hockey jersey, et cetera, et cetera, although Bryan, who played pick-up hockey at a rink in Cromwell, often encouraged me to give it a try. I laughed.

But this winter, the pond has frozen! Two days ago, Brooksvale Park in Hamden officially opened its pond for skating. And Dylan, who has been playing hockey informally for the last year, really needed someone to play with. So, as his main source of entertainment, I felt it my duty to oblige. “I’ve never played ice hockey, Dylan,” I said sheepishly, "but I’ll give it a try." (Lexi offered to play “coach.”). Several years ago, Bryan bought me a pair of hockey skates, and I had complained that they were much harder to skate in than the white boot skates on which I had learned. But now they have a purpose. And my old stick, which was lost for many years behind skis, snowshoes, and mountaineering gear, was overjoyed to come out and play.

The ice was surprisingly smooth for pond ice (Brooksvale Park, in Hamden, has a fantastic crew, and they plow and clean the ice themselves). Once we made it past the downward slope of the bank and the bumps that invariably sprout up around the edges, I slid the puck out to center ice. And then, twenty-something years after my declaration, I was playing ice hockey, and what a rush it was. Dylan was a tenacious defender, and fortunately for us, Alexa, who believes all the world is a stage, was perfectly happy to pretend there was an adoring audience for her “tricks.” We played until there was no more light, and as I skated across the pond for one last slapshot, I felt, for a moment, the presence of Dad. “Take that, Dad!” I said as I got into position, and I could hear him laughing.

Intact but Exhausted: On Parenting the "Spirited" Child

2009-10-25T22:01:00.007-04:00

Spirited. What a lovely euphemism for a tempestuous temperament. A while back, I posted, here on this blog, an essay called “Seatbelt, Please,” which chronicled, to some extent, the joys and frustrations of parenting a “spirited” toddler. In my post, I quoted Dr. Sears, whose “Fussy Baby Book” brought me much validation and comfort during some dark times with my volatile daughter, Alexa. Sears sings the praises of “fussy” children, arguing that they generally grow up to be more vivacious, more interesting, more spirited than the average child.

In our culture, 'good' children are ones who do what they're told, without discussion. They sit quietly in their high chairs and eat what they're fed. They obey the Sunday school teacher and take their seat when asked. They don't talk in class at school and they certainly don't argue with their parents.
"I've met very few children like that, yet we persist in the fiction. . . . (Sears, 160-61).

In response to this passage, I wrote, “I love a good fiction like anybody else, but I also love a roller coaster.”

And it’s true; I do seem to seek out chaos and drama, at least on occasion. But, man, I’m finding that this particular ride quite often turns my stomach upside down, and I’m finding it difficult to locate the good-natured, retrospective mood that seemed ever-present in that earlier essay. For the present, I’ve abandoned Dr. Sears, and have turned instead to one who provides a different kind of perspective: Dr. Merlot. He’s sweet and smooth and invariably brings a little tingle of warmth. He doesn’t question my parenting strategies. He lets me lie back in his warm, liquid arms.

Woops—pardon my reverie. For actual advice, I do turn, on occasion, to books. I found this statement in Mary Sheedy Kurcinka’s “Raising Your Spirited Child” (there’s that lovely term again):

“Spirited kids like to make very sure the limits stand firm. As a result, they test more than other kids. This is not a figment of our imagination”(Kurcinka, 169).

Let me raise my glass to Kurcinka for taking time to point out that I’m not crazy. Because last week, when I picked up Alexa, kicking and screaming, and marched across the playground in front of two of her friends’ moms, I definitely felt, for a moment, like Joan Crawford. I imagined my hair flying all around my face, a savage frizzy mane; pictured my face in white Kabuki makeup, my eyes wild, bursting from their sockets with rage, as in the “wire hanger” incident in “Mommie Dearest.”

But I’m sane, so that’s good.

Here’s what triggered it: my cute little three-year-old has started rolling her eyes—in appropriate moments, no less. And the eye-roll is a punctuation mark, an exclamation point at the end of a whole lot of attitude. It started last Tuesday, at the Hamden YMCA, where Dylan was a guest in his friend Matthew’s swim class. Lexi pouted for a good 45 minutes, saying, grumpily, “I wanna swim.”

And at first I was sympathetic. It was 4:00 in the afternoon, not a good time for three-year-olds under the best of circumstances. “Lexi,” I said patiently, “I know you’re upset, but do you know why Dylan gets to swim today? It’s because. . . .”

And I never got to finish that sentence, because she hit me with the first eye roll, a very dramatic, eyes-back-in-your-head maneuver, followed by an exaggerated sigh. I was dumbfounded.

“Whoa,” my friend said slowly, equally floored.

Then, the next day, at the playground, it happened again. She wanted to take off her shoes. I said I thought it was a bad idea. I said, “It’s not summer. It’s fall. It’s cold. Do you understand?”

“No,” she replied, her eyes innocent. “I don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lexi,” I said, my voice clearly showing signs of anger, “If you want to stay at the playground, then you need to be a good. . . .”

There it was again: the eye roll. Not quite as dramatic, but enough to make an impact.

“Use a Firm Voice,” instructs Kurcinka’s book. “A firm voice,” she goes on to explain, “is not harsh or loud. It is simply a voice of conviction—a voice that states clearly, ‘The rule is . . . I will help you follow the rule.’ The tone communicates to your spirited child that you are committed and willing to get up and enforce this rule every time” (Kurcinka, 168).

If nothing else, I think I have been consistent in the area of rule enforcement, even if, in certain moments, it’s Joan Crawford-Kabuki-style enforcement.

In my previous post, I wrote:

Discipline. Sears says that attachment parenting is discipline in and of itself: when your infant cries and you hold her, you are teaching her that the world--or at least her world--is a place of comfort and love, and this, according to Sears, will give her the confidence she needs to go forward. I mean, really, can a 2-month old manipulate us, as many popular books suggest? When Alexa cried, I nursed her. I held her. I cursed her silently at times (sometimes not so silently), and Bryan and I bickered like brats in the middle of the night. (Me, March 2008)

And despite her ability to drive me to the edge of reason, I still find that she responds so well to love and nurturing, that even though she tests, and tests, and tests, there is a loving little creature inside that devilish costume. And I confess, too, that I find her adventurousness amusing, even thrilling. After her “time out” in the playground, she was back on the merry-go-round, hanging upside down, being thrown from the reckless ride two or three times, and jumping back on to exercise her athletic prowess. It was frightening and entertaining all at once. I was sure she was going to leave with a broken arm, but in the end, we all left intact, if a bit exhausted.

Hail to the blithe little spirits of the world.

I’m off to my appointment with Dr. Merlot.

words for warmth

2009-10-20T09:43:00.005-04:00

Words for Warmth

A Reading Project to Support Homeless Veterans in New Haven

For many, Autumn in New England is a warm prelude to the winter holiday months. We turn up the heat, light a fire in the woodstove, and wrap a fleece blanket around our shoulders as we settle into the evening hours, curled up with a favorite book.

For scores of veterans returning from the present wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, this cozy scene is not merely idyllic, it is inconceivable. The bite in the air signifies the reality of winter and all of its foreboding uncertainties: for many veterans, the season is a sobering reminder that a warm bed and a stable support system remain, for the present, elusive luxuries.

Reading for Relief

How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book. ~Henry David Thoreau, Walden

How can books help provide relief from the cold? From now until Veteran’s Day (Wednesday, November 11), 0ur team of motivated young students will be raising funds for the Homefront, a refuge for veterans returning from the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, by reading books—lots of books! By pledging your support, you can help them reach their goal of $250.00, all of which will go toward helping the Homefront open its doors in January.

And best of all, when you make a donation to the read-a-thon, you not only provide funding for the Homefront; you also promote literacy!

For more information, or to make a donation, contact:

Tricia Dowcett tdowcett@gmail.com

Lori Ouellette lori1026@gmail.com

Joanne Dragunoff jodragun@gmail.com

Ann Bickell abickell@hotmail.com

Please support our team with a pledge. Winter is fast approaching, and our returning soldiers need our help. Together, we can help those who sacrificed so much for us.

What is the Homefront?

The Homefront is a house, a refuge for veterans returning from the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan who have nowhere to go and need support and reconnection.

Veterans can live at the house for up to two years as they address the causes of their homelessness. The house is divided into apartments where the men will live together and receive support from both trained staff and each other.

The Homefront's goals include:

Providing stable housing
Encouraging veterans to pursue higher levels of education and vocational training
Fostering self-determination
Reintegrating veterans back into their communities
Freeing up space in the already overcrowded shelters

For more information on the Homefront, please visit www.columbushouse.org.

damn these things!

2009-06-14T21:31:00.003-04:00

Most people would agree I'm a pretty healthy eater. I stay away from processed foods, eat organic whole foods, yadda yadda yadda. I run. I hike. I do yoga. For the most part, I'm kind to my body.

But I am incorrigibly addicted to potato chips. I love the salt, the oil, the crunch. The ridges. I love them, and I hate them, and therefore I don't keep them in the house, because when it comes to chips, I have no self-control. My eyes glaze over, my mouth waters, and I turn into Homer Simpson.

And how far chip manufacturers (is that the right word? maybe I should use it regardless, as it illustrates the unnatural-ness of chips. But what about all-natural chips?) have come. We have pesto chips. Chips cooked in avocado oil. Chipotle chips. Cilantro chips. Sweet potato chips. Beet chips. Okay, that last one doesn't appeal to me at all, but I'm just saying.

Tonight, I took the kids to see They Might be Giants on the New Haven green. I packed dinner in advance, knowing there would be pizza and french fries and hot dogs (healthy options, too, but those are pricey) in the kiosks along Temple Street. So I threw together some tuna sandwiches on "lettuce wraps" (we're a bit low on bread at the moment). Also on the dinner menu was cucumbers and hummus; home-made granola; and pineapples for dessert. I felt pretty good, though I knew I would still have to find a spot away from the food booths to avoid being seduced by the aroma of fried food and ice cream (I'm also quite vulnerable when it comes to french fries, which are just potato chips in another form).

Kids ate the meal. No complaints. Problem is, we were surrounded by chip eaters. Did the kids notice? Not really. Did I? Yes. Ruffles. Terra Chips. Baked Lays. Tortilla chips. Neither the electric guitar nor the keyboard could drown out the "crunch crunch crunch." My lips craved salt. The homemade granola didn't seem so appealing anymore.

On the way back from New Haven, I did a mental inventory of my cupboards. No chips. And I couldn't stop on the way home. I'd have to go out of my way to find a convenience store, and really, that would just be taking things too far. Okay, I was going to be fine.

So I put the kids to bed. I washed a few dishes. I had a handful of granola. Then I opened the door to the kitchen closet to grab the broom, and a plastic bag fell from one of the shelves. I was about to stuff it in the plastic bag holder; as I was pushing it down, I felt something inside. It crunched. I opened the bag. In it was a small bag of Cape Cod chips. Someone was looking out for me. Or cursing me. Either way, I thoroughly enjoyed them.

magical thinking

2009-06-12T15:53:00.005-04:00

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

The question of self-pity.

So begins Joan Didion's memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, in which she explores grief, marriage, loss, writing and even the complexities of hospital critical care. She wrote the book after losing her husband, the writer John Gregory Dunne, who suffered a fatal heart attack in their kitchen as they were about to have dinner. To add to Didion's suffering, she and John had just come from visiting their only daughter, Quintana, who was unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit after succumbing to an especially acute and debilitating form of the flu.

While Didion's story is unique, her opening passage immediately struck me as familiar. My father died in a similar fashion: he went down to the basement to get a drink from the refrigerator, and never made it back up. As Didion writes, he “was talking, and then he wasn't.” And though he wasn't pronounced dead until two days later, in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, I still see this as the moment when he passed from our world into the next. He never again took a breath on his own, never regained consciousness. He was there, and then he was gone. Life as you know it ends.

In an early chapter, Didion recalls struggling to remember what they had talked about at dinner. What John had been saying just before he died. Suddenly, remembering seemed to be of utmost importance, and yet she could not recall. I remember this same panic, even before Bryan and I reached the hospital. We were driving through southern Vermont, where we had been vacationing. I remembered that the last time I saw Dad was July 1 (it was now July 12). He and Mom had watched the kids on the evening of June 30 while Bryan and I went to the Pearl Jam concert at the Tweeter Center with my sister, Kaytie, and her friend Jessica. They had taken the kids to my brother's softball game. Dad had spent the entire game at the fence with Dylan, explaining the rules, cheering for Joe. I imagined how Dylan's interest in the game must have pleased Dad, who had always been an avid sports fan.

But what had happened the following day, the day after the concert? I recalled Dad asking me about the concert, but was that in the morning, or at lunchtime? Had he come home for lunch, as he sometimes did when we were visiting? I nearly broke into a sweat trying to remember the details. I tried to replay the events of the day, but the projector seemed to be broken. We went to the park, played baseball and basketball. Joey met us there. And then. And then? What were the last words that Dad and I had spoken to each other?

I never did recall. I like to think that he came home for lunch, but I'm not sure.

I like to think that I answered all of his emails, especially the one in which he responded to a blog entry about my brother Michael. He thanked me for thinking of Mike, said he was sometimes afraid we would forget him. “I did not want to put this in your blog because my feelings are personal and that is the way I will always be. Please know how much your feelings mean to me and how much I love all of you. Thanks, Dad.”

There is no “reply arrow” on this email. Did I respond? All the evidence seems to point to “no.” I have a vague memory of talking to him about this in person, in my parents' living room, possibly after Joe and Kim's baby shower. But I don't know if I have created this memory to make myself feel better. I have a bad habit of leaving emails in my inbox, with the intention of writing a response when I have some solitude, but I confess that these emails often get buried under more emails. I should have answered right away. I don't think I did. I'll never know.

In the hours following her husband's death, Didion looked at the time and realized that it was three hours earlier in California. In Los Angeles, she thought, this hasn't happened yet. She knew this was irrational. Later, as she is going through his things, she realizes she can not put his clothes into boxes, can not pack up his shoes, because, well, if he comes back, he might need them. Again, she knew this was irrational. She refers to this thought process as “magical thinking.”

Last week or the week before, I was clearing old text messages from my cell phone. I came across one from my sister: “So excited about tomorrow night.” The date was June 29, the day before the Pearl Jam concert. The message seemed suspended in time, a time in which Dad was still breathing, probably eagerly awaiting his grandchildren. I experienced a “magical” thought: If I replied to this message, would it, too, go back in time? Were there messages from June 28, or 27, or from May? Could I answer that email from Dad now? Surely technology has created something that allows us to send messages anachronistically?

In reality, a response to Dad's email would go straight to Mom, who shares the email address. But for a few brief seconds, it seemed that maybe communication was possible.

Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be. . . . Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life. Virtually everyone who has ever experienced grief mentions this phenomenon of “waves.”

I am riding one of these waves right now as Dad's 63^rd birthday approaches, and as the first anniversary of his death looms overhead. Didion writes that when she got home from the hospital, “My first thought was that I had to talk to John about this.” I have often experienced this: when I have a question about gardening, I need to call Dad. When the Red Sox beat the Yankees, I need to call Dad. When Dylan or Lexi does something noteworthy, I need to call Dad. When Alexa had a bad stomach virus a few weeks ago, I was about to tell my mother, “Don't mention it to Dad,” because he was such a worrier. I forget, and then I re-remember, and another wave hits.

The words with which Didion opens her memoir are the words she wrote in her notebook shortly after John died. I found it interesting that she included “The question of self-pity,” especially so soon after losing her partner of forty or fifty years.

People in grief think a great deal about self-pity. We worry it, dread it, scourge our thinking for signs of it. We fear that our actions will reveal the condition tellingly described as “dwelling on it.” We understand the aversion most of us have to “dwelling on it.” Visible mourning reminds us of death, which is construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation. “A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty, “ Phillipe Aries wrote to the point of this aversion in Western Attitudes Toward Death. But one no longer has the right to say so aloud.” We remind ourselves repeatedly that our own loss is nothing compared to the loss experienced (or, the even worse thought, not experienced) by he or she who died; this attempt at corrective thinking serves only to plunge us deeper int the self-regarding deep. (Why didn't I see that, why am I so selfish.)

Society, Didion says, rewards the stoics, and so we fail to give grief its due. Most employers allow two or three days of “mourning” for a distant family member or friend, five for an immediate family member. I remember taking a week off from school when my brother died; when I returned to work, I found I had to go through it all over again as my colleagues approached me with condolences and hugs. It's too soon, I thought.

I remember, a mere five days after Dad's funeral, expressing to my friend Kristen my fear that I would never “come out of it.” I knew it was going to be a long process, and I think on some level I worried that my grief was imposing on others' happiness. I was afraid of the inconvenience it would cause. I found myself apologizing for talking about Dad, while at the same time needing desperately to have the conversation.

“Tricia,” Kristen said slowly, deliberately, “it hasn't even been two weeks. Go easy on yourself.”

I find myself feeling apologetic even now, as I write these words. I imagine readers rolling their eyes and thinking, “Ugh—aren't we past this already? Didn't we get all of this out last summer?”

And yet, I keep writing.

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. . . .We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to “get through it,” rise to the occasion, exhibit the “strength” that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. . . .We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.

I don't imagine that my grief is unique, nor do I find my situation to be tragic. It's common. It's ordinary. I know, as someone pointed out during this time, that we can never experience the kind of suffering experienced by, say, a woman in Afghanistan. Neither can my grief be compared to that of the parents of the three-year-old boy who drowned in his swimming pool here in Cheshire a few weeks ago.

Didion herself had much more cause for suffering than I. Shortly after finishing her book, she lost her daughter, who had suffered a series of setbacks after what looked like a promising recovery.

Dad was in my life for thirty-seven years. He met and knew and loved both of my children, if only for the first few years of their lives. I don't write out of self pity, but for catharsis. So I won't apologize. And I will resist the urge to assure you, anonymous reader, that I'm not “dwelling on it.”

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

vive la jeunesse!

2009-06-03T14:27:00.002-04:00

i heart mud

2009-05-15T09:20:00.003-04:00

Now that my semester has officially ended, the Friday morning trail runs have resumed. We meet at my house, at 6am sharp (yup, that's right--6am), and jog the mile or so to the DeDominicis trail, which the town opened up to the public about six years ago. Our run begins with a brutal wake-up: a steep climb up Old Lane Road to the trailhead. (It's less brutal for me, as I have my own personal rope tow in the form of my hyperactive Lab, Sasha.) A few minutes later, we are deep in the woods, ankle-deep in mud, and, if we've all had enough sleep (which was not the case this morning), deep in conversation. Despite the hour, it really is an invigorating start to the day.

I've always preferred trails to roads. People have often asked me, "Why do you run? Why would you do something so painfully boring?" I don't know. I've been running since I was ten or eleven; it's always been something I felt driven to do. But I see their point. When running begins to feel like work, it loses its purpose. On the trails, especially in the company of my witty and garrulous cohorts, I'm distracted from my task. Instead of muddling, I'm soaring. My brain is working furiously, calculating the best way around this rock or that root. My thighs are burning as I climb the hills, which always seem taller in the woods. Sasha stops to take a swim in a pool of fresh rainwater and we catch our breath, marveling at the dramatic change in the landscape now that spring is here. The ferns have sprouted up everywhere; the leaves are a deep, fertile green; the dead foliage has been reborn as rich brown soil. The woods are alive. Pete, our resident Audubon member, identifies birds by their songs. When we pause to tie a shoe or find the trail, the bugs remind us of their presence.

When we get back to my driveway, we're covered from thighs to soles in mud. Spring, our legs announce, has truly arrived. We don't hose off right away; we must first compare calves. Who has played the hardest? The mud is our elixir, our holy water, our badge of honor.

"Yuck!" my kids say when I enter the house, but I know they get it. There's a small hole in our sideyard that fills up with water when it rains, and they take great pleasure in dirtying themselves there. When they're done, their toes are grimy and black. They hold their hands up proudly, half-wondering if the muck will win them a smile or a reproach. I'll admit I'm not always thrilled (who wants to clean up that mess?), but inside, I am pleased. In a small way, they're in touch with nature, and in that moment, it's way better than toys!

letter to spring

2009-04-22T17:18:00.004-04:00

Dear Spring:

Since you haven't returned any of my calls, I can only assume that you caught wind of my love letters to Winter a few months ago. Yes, I took pleasure in his hardy embrace, and yes, I find him irresistible at a certain time of year--I mean, he's so burly and rugged and exciting. But we're not exclusive, Winter and I, and really, Spring, I do just wish I could look out the window and see your colorful blossoms, moist with dew. I mean, come on, Spring, is this silence, this evasiveness, really necessary? It's April 22nd, and my toes are freezing in my wool socks. The tea in my hand can't even take the edge off the chill. Winter has departed, but you, Spring, stubbornly hide yourself away, leaving us here in a seasonal purgatory.

And come on, Spring, I mean everyone sings your praises. In literary terms, you are Rebirth, Regeneration, Love; poor Winter has to get stuck with Death and Dying. Poets muddle through the cold season, pouring their darkest humors into their winter poems, in order to find their way back to you, Spring. Nobody looks out his window on a fragrant, sunny day in May and mutters, "Oh, God, it's warm and clear again."

So, with all due respect, Spring, I think a little perspective is in order.

If that isn't enough, then I'm willing to get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness. Please come back, Spring. Please?

unplugged

2009-04-20T10:06:00.003-04:00

Over Easter weekend, the family and I trekked up to one of my favorite towns, Burlington, Vermont, to stay with some friends. On Saturday, my buddy Paul and I donned our shorts and running shoes, exposing our legs to the chilly northern air, and ran the Unplugged Half Marathon. Much of the course was familiar, as it ran mainly along my old stomping grounds, the Burlington Bike Path, with lovely views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondack Mountains just beyond. The wind was frigid and even aggressive at times, especially as we made our way in and out of Oak Ledge Park, where Dylan, Alexa, and Paul’s son Nico were waiting with outstretched hands, but in the photos taken by the race photographer, Paul and I are laughing, unfazed. Maybe it was the endorphins, or maybe it was the laughter that comes from shared pain. Or maybe it was the bliss that comes from uninterrupted conversation, a luxury when one has small children. Paul and I shared an office for two years when we were Teaching Fellows at the University of Vermont eight years ago, so we had lots of time for impromptu chats in those days, but since becoming parents, our communication has consisted mainly of email conversations, occasional postcards, messages on Facebook, and two or three brief annual visits.

I tend to think, though, that, more than anything, my smile in the photograph is a direct result of the tension that invariably drains from my neck and shoulders when I cross the border from Massachusetts into Vermont on I-91. Something happens when I see the “Welcome to Vermont” sign. “Keep it Simple” is Vermont’s state motto, and while a number of friends have expressed their frustration over Vermont’s lack of billboards (“How can I find the nearest McDonald’s?”), over the miles and miles between exits, and over the state’s general defiance of convenience, this is what I find most endearing. “Simple, dammit!” the sleepy hamlets and villages seem to snap back at the tourists who bemoan the elusiveness of the Taco Bell. “You want lunch?” Vermont asks. “Come and find it.”

Of course, with small children in tow, one needs to allow for extra travel time in planning a drive through this under-populated state. Once, when Alexa was a colicky infant, we realized, too late, that we had left her pacifier at home. She began to grow desperate and irrational. We pulled off at the nearest exit (which was probably 10 minutes up the road), and then drove for a good 15 or 20 minutes, Alexa practically blue and our nerves completely fried, until we found a general store which, mercifully, had binkies. Whew.

Despite the potential for maddening incidents like this one, I still prefer Vermont’s dogged simplicity to the bustle of the lower New England states. And Paul and Meredith’s house is an extension of this simplicity. Many of Nico’s toys were made by Paul himself: wooden blocks and a playhouse and a makeshift see-saw. The sandbox. The TV is nowhere to be seen, and even if it were, they don’t have cable. The “playscape” in the backyard is a twisted tree trunk laid on its side. Perfect for climbing, and no assembly required. Downtown is a fifteen-minute walk, and though Church Street, with its charming cobblestones and fountains and climbing structures, has succumbed to such chain outfits as Old Navy, Starbucks, and Borders, downtown Burlington is still home to some thriving independent stores and restaurants, including my old favorites: Stone Soup, a cafeteria-style vegetarian café; Outdoor Gear Exchange, where you can find new and consigned gear and clothing for adults AND kids; and Muddy Waters, where a grad student can spend hours sipping coffee and cramming for comps exams, and then finish the night with a microwbrew. And, of course, there is Nectar’s, former home to the band Phish. What I wouldn’t give to be back in Burlington, unplugged.

Like many idyllic cities, Burlington has its drawbacks, of course. For one, it is blindingly white (and not just because of the snow). For a small city, it’s culturally diverse in terms of restaurants, theatre events, and social justice; in terms of ethnic diversity, however, B-town leaves much to be desired.

Still, the sense of community is palpable. I often wonder what my town, Cheshire, would be like if the town would just put in sidewalks. Cheshire has potential: there’s a town green, there are a few shops downtown. But we don’t walk anywhere (or, when we do, we have to say a prayer before and after, because cars are so unused to pedestrians that they can barely swerve out of the way in time to avoid having you plastered on the front of their SUVs), and we’re so busy, running our kids off to one activity after another, promoting structure but inadvertently adding chaos. There’s a sense of immediacy here, especially when it comes to kids: get them involved now, or they might fall behind. And what falls through the cracks in the process? The ability to slow down, to engage in unstructured play, to appreciate the natural playscapes that really do abound here—even from New Haven, there is easy access to trails.

The other problem with Burlington is, of course, that jobs—and houses—are nearly impossible to come by. Whenever I whine and envy Paul and Meredith’s “good fortune,” I remember what they sacrificed to have their House in Burlington. It was in an almost incomprehensible state of disrepair when they purchased it: a former crack house, with barely a roof to speak of. They homesteaded: they took jobs as Resident Managers at Champlain College, living in a dorm while they spent a year building their house (Paul even built the cabinets himself, and recently, he refurbished the second floor, even adding a little window in Nico’s bedroom that allows him to look out over the treetops at Lake Champlain).

It’s no secret that I’ve wanted to move someplace “more simple” for quite some time (not that Connecticut doesn’t have its charms—it does). Recently, though, I decided that for the moment, I need to embrace my surroundings, because living with one foot out the door isn’t productive or enriching. Still, when I return from Vermont, there’s always a bit of a post-Green Mountain-funk that follows. Hence this rant. Thanks for listening.

for dylan, turning five

2009-02-27T13:22:00.004-05:00

"Jesus, he's beautiful."

Your grandfather breathed these words when he first beheld you, lying in your plexiglass hospital crib sporting a onesie and diaper. Grampy's voice exuded love, surprise, disbelief (and not only because he had begun to believe his daughter would never have a baby), and joy. He watched you closely, took in your wide wide eyes, your delicate olive skin, your slender fingers and toes. "He looks like he's looking around at stuff," he said, as if you possessed gifts other babies did not.

And of course, for us, you did. Many, many times have I silently echoed Grampy's words: "Jesus, he's beautiful." There's beauty in your appearance, yes, but also in your interactions with your friends, your family, and with the world. A beautiful soul: gentle, loving, quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) forthright. You are a perfect balance of natural empathy, stubborn determination, restless curiosity, and boundless energy.

Your fifth birthday has arrived, and as I reflect on the years that have brought us here, I see a slideshow in fast-forward, and I am struck by the need to slow it down, to pause, to record everything so that no part of your wonder years are forgotten or overlooked. I recall your dark eyes probing my face as we rocked in the glider. You're in a yellow sleep sack, sucking on a pacifier, and I'm reading "Goodnight Moon." Your gaze is so deep it's startling. "He's a very intense little baby," your dad said around this time, and this intensity is something you carry with you in everything you do: I see it in the complicated narrative of your play; in your face when you are troubled; in your dogged focus at the skating rink; in your concern for others' feelings.

I remember the first time you went to daycare. We did a one-hour trial run: I stayed for the first thirty minutes and watched you play; then I left, slowly, hesitantly, amazed at the depth of my emotion as I drove away. I cried. I had stayed home with you, not working, for fifteen months, and the guilt I felt in this moment was overbearing. And I don't think it helped that you waved good-bye, or that you were smiling. When I returned, you were playing happily. The sight of you, all baby fat and fine curls, wearing your red overall shorts and Carter's sandals, made me cry all over again. "Mama!" you shouted. As I embraced you, I thought, "I've never known love until this moment."

Your intensity is most remarkable in your relationship with your sister. What great friends you are! This, of course, after an initial transition that was rocky at times. Our first night home with Alexa, you stood crying in your crib, clutching the blue Patriots football my parents had brought for you. In the morning, you climbed into bed with us, your expression at finding the baby still here a mixture of confusion and excitement. "Hi, bee-bee," you said, crouching down to see her as she slept. "Good moanin!"

Last year, on Valentine's Day, your teachers asked you to answer the question, "What is love?" You responded, "Loving my sister." This year, your response was the same. And it's no empty phrase. Dianne, our neighbor, once commented that you carry your sister "by the scruff of her neck." You jump when she drops a book, you're sad when she's away from you. You derive great joy from teaching her new things, and she prefers your company to anyone else's. At night, when I kiss you both while you sleep, I see that Lexi is covered with stuffed animals and extra blankets, and I know that her brother-angel is looking out for her.

Today you said to me, "I think Lexi and me might wanna get married when we get older, because we don't want to live far away from each other." Already, you are thinking of your future, and planning ways to keep your sister close by. I hope you will always share this bond.

Dylan, you are beautiful. Jesus, you're beautiful. And yet, beautiful can't even begin to capture all of the things that you are. My greatest pleasure has been to watch you grow, to share your brightest moments, and to comfort you when you have needed it. I enjoy watching you line up your cars as much as I enjoy watching you skate ferocious laps around the rink. Always, I am proud of you. I could easily lament the swiftness with which these years have passed, or beat myself up about how I haven't lived in the moment, or played with you enough, or appreciated you as I should. Instead, I would rather smile on the moments we have now, on the rich and wonderful years that await us: days and weeks and months and years filled with camping trips, hikes, skinned knees, amusement parks, trips to the city, broken bones, t-ball games, shouting matches, conversations, movies, et cetera, et cetera.

You've been here only five years, but I can hardly remember the years that came before.

Happy birthday, beautiful.

not with a bang, but a whimper

2009-01-28T10:28:00.004-05:00

Signs of the impending apocalypse (heard during my elliptical workout at the Y yesterday morning):

-- It rained dead birds in Esperance, Australia and then Austin, Texas, within the span of three weeks.

-- The latest teen fad is a game called "punch out," whose rules are self-evident.

-- Joe Torre, baseball's Gentleman Manager, just published a tell-all memoir. Guess that's what living in L.A. does to your sense of ethics.

ushers of the new dawn

2009-01-23T12:10:00.002-05:00

for the love of cold

2009-01-23T10:12:00.004-05:00

Time for the weather report. It's cold out folks. Bonecrushing cold. The kind of cold which will wrench the spirit out of a young man, or forge it into steel.

(Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure: Lost and Found, 1992

There’s something exhilarating about cold, real cold, the kind of cold that freezes your nostrils and forms tiny icicles on your eyelids, that nips at your flesh, penetrating the layers of fleece and polyester and Smartwool. It is at once energizing and humbling: it reminds us that nature is both a blessing and a force.

Last weekend, my friend Pete and I set out for the DeDominicis trail in Cheshire at 8:00 am, when the thermometer said the temperature was minus-five. Before we had even reached the trailhead, which is about a mile and a quarter from my house, the wisps of hair that had made their way outside the balaclava I was sporting had become white and hard, and my teeth were so cold that conversation was nearly impossible. My feet, still warm thanks to the miracles of Gore-tex and merino wool, seemed to stick to the ground with each step, and my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

I admit that none of this sounds especially enjoyable or pleasurable. Yet, as we trudged up and down (mostly up, or so it felt!) the snow-covered hills, less packed down than we had hoped, our quads burning from the effort, I felt alive, really and truly alive. Having lived, albeit briefly, in the cold climes of Anchorage, Alaska and Burlington, Vermont, I had come to think of Connecticut as mild, disappointingly so. My heavy thermals rarely have occasion to leave the bin of cold weather clothing under my bed. My down jacket comes out two or three times a year. As a result, I felt my own spirit had become domesticated. I would shiver when the temperature dipped below forty. I would lament my “tame” geographic location (much to the irritation of friends and family, who have had more than enough of my complaining, and of my nostalgia). Now here was Mother Nature in her essence, showing us that she could flex her biceps even here in southern New England. And while I embraced the challenge of working my muscles in the arctic air, I also bowed to the power of Nature.

Such a deranged view of cold is probably a result of my obsession with Alaska, a place to which I still feel drawn. Alaska, for me, was a personal challenge, a test of physical and emotional will. While my time there was too short, I emerged a more complete person, more confident, more awake, more aware. This is the gift of adversity, be it in the form of weather, exercise, tragedy, distress, illness, or emotional duress.

Blow, blow thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind. . . .
(William Shakespeare)

christmas and spirits; or, a child's christmas in waltham

2008-12-10T15:36:00.008-05:00

Dad was always giddy about Christmas. He was, without fail, the first one up on Christmas morning, rising when it was still dark. I remember waking up often to the sound of his footsteps in the hall; he was trying to be inconspicuous as he made just enough noise to rouse us. It was still dark outside; sometimes it was as early as 5:00 am when we opened our eyes, confusion slowly giving way to excitement. The four of us followed Dad down the hall while Mom took up the rear. “Hold on,” he would say as we got to the stairs. "I need to make sure the Big Guy came."

(Aside: This practice of my Dad's was especially important, because you never knew whether Santa might goof and actually skip your house. Seemed implausible, but we didn't want to take any chances. As a matter of fact, one Easter Sunday, my brother Joey and I were stunned to find that the other Big Guy, the Easter Bunny, really hadn't come. We sat down and mulled over this for a few minutes as we stared at the empty coffee table where our Easter Baskets should have been. Maybe, we thought, we should have listened to our parents when they told us to "Knock that off! The Easter Bunny's watching." As it turned out, the Bunny had forgotten his "special key," and was crafty enough to have left the loot in the trunk of Mom's car. Crisis averted.)

Back to Christmas morning. Dad crept down the stairs as our hands shook and our hearts fluttered nervously. "Hmmm, " he would mutter. "He didn't leave the presents here." We'd look at each other, trying to figure out whether or not he was serious. Was it possible Santa could have . . . .?

And then the light would go on and we would scurry down the stairs and the frenzied gift-grabbing would ensue. A Barbie Towne House for me, some Star Wars guys for Joey and Mike, a doll for Kaytie.

Santa was always far more generous to us than we were to each other. In the early years, we bought our gifts at the elementary school's Christmas bazaar. Each year, someone got a mini screwdriver set (and I don't mean vodka and orange juice), some crocheted mittens, and some pens. One year, Michael gave me a pad of paper. Another year, Joey gave me his old Led Zeppelin boxed set; he didn't bother to rewind the tapes. The most memorable sibling gift, however, was a 2-inch plastic rendering of Barney Rubble of the Flintstones, known hereafter as the Glass Barney, given to Joey from Michael.

(A year after Michael died, I searched for Glass Barney on Ebay, found it, paid about 100 times what Michael must have paid for it at the Fitch School, and gave it to Joey for Christmas again. It's now a permanent fixture in my parents' living room.)

This ritual of waking up at the crack of dawn continued into adulthood. One Christmas I was home from Colorado. Kaytie and I stayed up late, drinking wine we had received as a gift and catching up on the latest family gossip. It was probably 2:00 when we finally retired. I nestled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of Kaytie's room, as my former chamber had been taken over by Michael after I'd moved out.

Sometime during the night I felt a foot nudge me, and then I heard a gruff, smart-alecky voice. "Hey, booze-bags," Michael greeted. "Rise and shine."

Was I dreaming, or did the clock actually say 4:45am?

"Get out of here," I said to Michael. "It's too early."

"Get up," he said, nudging again. "Dad's waiting."

I crawled out of my sleeping bag, anticipating the hangover that was sure to follow. There was Dad, in the living room, waiting like an anxious kid. The smile on his face was half-jolly, half-mocking as Kaytie and I rubbed our red, red eyes.

In more recent years, we have done our gift-swapping on Christmas Eve, since Bryan and I want our children to wake up in their own home on Christmas morning. But this never quelled the Christmas Spirit in the Dowcett home. On the contrary; the arrival of grandchildren seemed only to foster my parents' excitement about the holidays. We often joked that my parents were going to need to put an addition on their home to accommodate all of the wooden carolers, nutcrackers, and other knick-knacks. I declared a moratorium on buying Christmas decorations as gifts.

Today, I was preparing lunch for Dylan and Alexa while Dylan perused the Christmas cards that had come in the mail. One was from my aunt Ann, my mom's sister. "Who's this from?" Dylan asked.

"From Auntie Ann and Uncle Bob. They're the ones whose house we go to on Christmas Eve."

And as I said "Christmas Eve," I was struck once again by Dad's absence; I immediately felt my eyes get hot. It's not the first time this season that I've been hit in this way, but for some reason, in that moment, my loss felt more poignant then ever. Christmas without Dad? I've scarcely gotten used to Christmas without Michael, even though he was far less active in my daily life than Dad was. Christmas, for me, is synonymous with Dad, with Dad and Mom. As it is, I can barely accept the vacant easy chair in the living room of my parents' house; I can hardly look at the tools and gardening supplies hanging neatly in the shed, or enjoy the back porch Dad finished only a few weeks before he passed away.

For my kids, I want Christmas to be about sharing, about social responsibility, about joy, and so for them I'm trying to keep my sadness covered up. But while I'm quite good at distracting myself, when left alone, even for a few moments, it feels raw once again, raw and recent and too real.

I'm playing this Buddhist mantra on an endless loop: Nothing is permanent; enjoy each moment of each day. Nothing is permanent; enjoy each moment of each day. Thicht Nacht Hahn says grief is easier if we accept from the beginning that everything is temporary. Accept life as it is, not as we wish it to be. I agree, but I wouldn't say it has made it easier.

I do have the memories, though, and through these, Dylan and Alexa can come to know the grandfather who adored them. Lexi still fondly recalls watching Frosty with Grampy last year while I went to watch Kaytie onstage in Boston. How much of this memory of hers is real and how much the result of our reminders is unclear, but it doesn't matter. I may be unclear as to my religious beliefs, but I do believe in Spirits, and I know that Dad's with them, with all of us, in some metaphysical way.

As human beings, we all want to be happy and free from misery.

We have learned that the key to happiness is inner peace. (Buddha)

human beings we all want to be happy and free from misery.
W
We have learned that the key to happiness is inner peace.

Alignment

2008-11-28T10:09:00.007-05:00

Over the past month, a nagging pain in my knee has forced me to take more time off from running than I have in the past ten years (not counting the time I took off during my two pregnancies, which really wasn't all that much). When the pain started, I would take a few days off, and then give it another go. Rather than improving the situation, the aching spread to other areas of my body, most noticeably, my lower back and my neck. “I think your body is trying to tell you something,” Bryan kept saying. The implication was unsettling.

I run, therefore I am (relatively) sane.

I shuddered to think about the psychological consequences of a week (weeks, even!) without the marvelous endorphin rush that comes from running, especially running in the fall, on the trails. I'll take another day off, I told Bryan. See what happens.

To get a better sense of just what might be causing this discomfort, I went to see an orthopedist. Diagnosis: misalignment. Meaning everything is out of whack, causing a grinding in the kneecap, sciatica, stiff neck, general malaise.

Recommendation: A focus on stability rather than speed. Strengthening the core instead of pounding the pavement.

The English teacher in me could not fail to see the metaphor in this. Many times have I chided myself for my inability to live in the moment, for my preoccupation with going and doing rather than being. As a result, my “core” had shriveled to something unstable and incomplete, in need of nurturing. While I have always thought of running as a sort of zen exercise, I have come to realize that when running, I'm thinking about essays, dinner, cleaning, child-rearing. I insist on being surrounded by physical beauty (trails) when I run, yet in the woods, I barely acknowledge the trees, the streams, the birds, except as a pleasant backdrop.

The initial reaction to this forced hiatus from running was panic. All my hard work! What would become of my body, my brain? Yes, there are other sports, but for a mother who works, it's hard to find anything with such quick and dirty results as running. It's free, I can do it early in the morning, and, if necessary, can do it pushing my kids in the jogging stroller. The perfect activity.

My subsequent crankiness did not go unnoticed. Any runner who has had to take time off understands this feeling: pent-up energy swirling around, looking for an outlet. A walk isn't enough, nor is twenty minutes on the elliptical. Now what?

Stabilize the core. If I'm going to run again, I need to focus now on stability. So on Wednesday night, instead of meeting up with my running group in Wallingford, I went to a yoga class, something I haven't done since I was pregnant with Alexa. At first, it was an immense amount of effort to slow my brain and body down. I had to rush to class because Bryan was a few minutes late and traffic was heavy. The other participants were already seated on their mats, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

And then everything came together. I am by no means graceful, nor am I limber, but if nothing else, during class I was mindful. Yoga is such an exquisite dance, one in which mind and muscles work together, stretching to expand consciousness and strengthen the core. The poses did not involve the same kind of endurance I have come to relish when I run trails, especially hills, but the soft voice of the instructor, the low lights, and the quiet allowed me to silence, if only for a short time, the endless “shoulds.” I didn't need to worry about what I should be doing, or what time it was. I needed only to be mindful: of body, of presence in the moment.

So, for the time being, I am forcing myself to slow down, and to nurture my core. This means that instead of joining my running buddies on Saturday morning for a 10-12 mile outing, I went for a hike with Dylan while Bryan took Alexa to her class at Rascal's gym. As we walked to the trail (how fortunate we are to have trails we can walk to), Dylan noticed a stream beside the road and said, “I've never seen that stream before.”

“Of course you have,” I replied. “We've been by here many times.” And then it occurred to me that, while we had passed down this road on many occasions, Dylan's vantage point was from the seat of the jogging stroller, which is usually whizzing by the stream. So, he was probably right about never having seen the stream before.

On the trail, a trail I know well, I had the same experience. There were side trails I had never seen, because I had always been looking ahead, down the trail, or at my watch. There were backyards in the distance. Dylan pointed out a robin. “They have red bellies,” he added.

I felt the same sort of mindfulness I had experienced in yoga class. Rather than thinking, “I should be running,” rather than worrying about the kind of workout I was getting, I let Dylan lead the way. He paused often to look at moss, or a footprint, or just to rest. I was cold—I had dressed for running, not walking—but I loved experiencing one of my favorite running routes through Dylan. We would race up a hill, only to slow down again to pick up an oak leaf, or to look at how the ground had frozen over the mud. We went home and had hot chocolate while Dylan told Bryan and Alexa all the things he had seen.

There's something to be said for slowing down once in a while, even though, for me at least, this takes an incredible effort. I'm hoping it's a transformation of some sort, this focus on mindfulness, on slowness, on my present surroundings rather than my desire to be in motion. Before I started running marathons, I never wore a watch; I insisted that running, for me, was not about time. I don't run on treadmills, because running, for me, is also about communion with nature. I would rather run in sheets of freezing rain than in a gym. But while I do enjoy the competitiveness of racing, in many ways it has made me too focused on time, and on the end result. I'm always training for something, trying to qualify for Boston, trying to beat my previous times. Maybe, after this sabbatical, running will once again be more about being, less about going.

I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre" — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a sainte-terrer", a saunterer — a holy-lander. (Henry David Thoreau, from “Walking)

budding photographer

2008-11-17T21:28:00.003-05:00

Dylan, "Self Portrait with Grammy's Camera" (2008)

why i prefer my bike

2008-11-17T20:44:00.003-05:00

After school today, the kids and I headed over to Cafe Ra in Wallingford to meet Bryan for lunch. Just before getting on to Route 15, I came to a traffic light, where I had just missed the left-turn arrow. I still had the green light, but noontime traffic was thick, and it didn't look as though an opportunity for turning was going to present itself. No big deal; I wasn't in a rush, and it's a pretty quick light. I could wait.

Now, by no means am I a tentative driver. I'm not aggressive; just generally impatient. Hey, I grew up in the Boston area; it's in my blood. But when I have my kids in the car, I don't take any chances. I'd rather suffer through another cycle of red-yellow-green than bear the guilt of putting my children's safety at risk.

So I was quite surprised when, after having resigned myself to waiting with somewhat forced patience, I was assaulted by the sound of an angry horn from behind. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an older woman, probably in her late sixties, yelling and gesturing wildly. I looked back at the light. It turned red. She beeped again, this time with more emphasis.

I turned around to confront her through my back windshield. She looked me square in the eye and gave me the finger. This respectable looking upper-middle-aged woman in a shiny Mercedes. Flipping me off because I hadn't pulled out in front of traffic.

I didn't want to alarm the kids, but I did want to have a word. I threw up my hands and mouthed, "Where could I have gone?"

She screamed back, "I don't know! I don't know!" But this acknowledgment seemed only to fuel her anger. She fired up her other middle finger, so that while she was screaming and convulsing, she was giving me the "double flip."

"Classy," I mouthed. Her reply was the verbal version of the finger.

As I said, I'm generally not a patient person, so on some level, I should probably "get" road rage. But I don't. Haven't since I was in my mid-twenties, when I finally realized what a selfish driver I'd become: tailgating other drivers because I hadn't left myself enough time to get to where I was going and now blamed the slower cars in front of me for making me late; swearing in frustration every time I had to sit in traffic; speeding just because there didn't seem to be a reason not to. Somewhere during that time I picked up a book on the "Buddha within," and realized how much negative energy I was storing, and exhaling into the universe.

I've often felt that, when driving on Connecticut highways, I'm an unwitting participant in a game to which I don't know the rules. Bryan, who has lived here his whole life, is far more tuned in. He knows what other drivers are thinking, and, as it turns out, most of them have an underlying agenda, usually one that does not have Bryan's best interests in mind. Before moving here, I had no idea that a highway was really a complex web of mind games in which automobile operators sought to outwit their fellow commuters--otherwise known as opponents--by employing such tactics as the Variable Speed Maneuver, the Cell Phone Shuffle, and the Box-In. All of these moves are executed while the driver feigns nonchalance, which is probably why I had been naive enough to believe they were mostly just driving.

Crazy Mercedes Lady is in need of some guidance, it seems, as she hasn't quite mastered the mask of indifference--or was she employing some other, more devious strategy? So much to learn, so much to learn. . . .

autumn, etc.

2008-10-14T23:31:00.003-04:00

Recently, I have taken advantage of our gorgeous Indian Summer by riding my bike to work. The foliage is brilliant this season, and my route consists almost entirely of bike path, which is laden with maple and oak trees. As I pedaled home on Friday, there was a slight breeze blowing, and this, combined with my modest speed, caused the leaves to come at my diagonally, hitting me in the face, sometimes poking me with a sharp edge. This was a little disorienting for the first few minutes, but after several batterings I was able to dodge the leaves by bobbing my head from side to side.

Autumn is, hands down, my favorite season. But this year, it is, like the leaves, tinged with sharp edges. It’s impossible to think of autumn without thinking of Dad. He adored this season. When most people were lamenting the passing of summer, Dad was shopping for mums and pumpkins, adhering leaf decorations to the windows, making flower arrangements in vibrant oranges and yellows. So now that the season is here, the absence of Dad is palpable.

And today would have been Michael’s 34^th birthday, which makes the air feel even heavier.

Dad dealt with his grief over Michael by tilling the soil. He visited the cemetery nearly every day, tending to the flowers he would plant according to the season, sometimes adding a photo or a trinket. He was as attentive to the tiny plot in front of Mike’s headstone as he was to his luscious lawn. By doing this, by feeding the soil and nurturing the plants, he was able to take care of his son in a way Michael never allowed him to in his last years.

Since Michael’s death, I have spent every October 14 in the company of my family: usually, I drive up to Waltham. One year, I ran the Hartford Marathon, and Mom and Dad came to cheer me on; last year, we camped in the Berkshires.

This year, with Dad gone, Kaytie, Joey and I decided to carry on Dad’s tradition of working the earth as a way of healing our souls. Joey dug up the perfectly-planted impatiens that had blossomed so beautifully all summer, thanks to Dad’s extraordinarily green thumb. Kaytie and I bought mums and pumpkins, and set upon the task of adorning the front of the house (and, later, the headstone, which now belongs to Michael and Dad).

I love gardening, love digging up soil and planting flowers. That said, I have inherited nothing of Dad’s plant panache. After a couple of hours of work today, the mums I planted looked scraggly and ill-spaced, compared to the impeccably groomed flower beds of my memory, and to add to the sense of comic chaos, I dug so hard into what I had thought was a rock that I broke a valve on the sprinkler system, and water came shooting out at me and into the flower bed, flooding the hole I had just dug. I yelled to Mom, who thought I was running from a bee. Once I had gotten my message across, she searched the basement, trying unsuccessfully to find the correct valve so that she might stop the shower. She found it after ten minutes or so, and we had a good chuckle. I imagined Dad groaning, good-naturedly, over the state of his front yard.

In spite of the mess, it was therapeutic. I feel closest to Dad when I’m working in his yard, digging with his tools, my hands in the gloves that used to be his. I marvel at his organization. I aspire to his sense of perfection, though realistically I know I’ll never achieve it. His yard, his shed, my family’s house: all are a reflection of Dad’s love and devotion to his family.

So, we were grieving two family members today. But also celebrating lives, remembering birthdays, and enjoying each other’s company, however briefly, however chaotically.

Happy 34^th, Mike. Love ya.

you may be a redneck if. . .

2008-09-15T14:16:00.005-04:00

Everyone knows Bryan as a car guy. Cars are more than a hobby for him; they are his life force. Our barn and driveway are filled with cars, most of them "projects," "works-in-progress," or "parts cars." Some of them are registered, and usually we have a spare car or two, just in case (I know this sounds frivolous, but with the exception of the GTV-6, which is completely apart at the moment, most of the cars are beaters with fancy brand names).

So there is much humor and irony in the fact that, although there are 5 cars in the driveway, we are down to one driveable car. Bryan's '87 BMW (in whose bumper I put a nice dent back in February) has been showing signs of revolt as of late. Ever resourceful, Bryan installed some kind of switch on the motor. "If the car stalls," he instructed last week, "pull over, pop the hood, and see if the red light is on. If it isn't, switch it on, and the car should start."

Let me back up a bit. It was already "funny" (okay, not so much to Bryan) that, Bryan's love of cars being what it is, we were driving a dented '87 model (okay, so it is a BMW, but still) and a big old down-home Chevy pickup truck. A far cry from the stately old Porsches Bryan likes to ogle on the web (not that we could ever afford one of those).

So today, just as I was leaving school, the car stalled. And wouldn't start again. I thought of calling a tow truck, but figured Bryan would have another solution. No surprise there. We got the truck, attached a bright yellow strap from the trailer hitch to the front of the BMW, and towed the car (me driving the truck, Bryan steering the sedan) from Quinnipiac back to our house. I kept my fingers crossed every time I took a corner, because as I was adjusting the rear view mirror, it came right off its perch, making it difficult to know for sure whether Bryan was behind me. Fortunately, after turning off Mount Carmel Ave., it's pretty much a straight shot.

Okay, so maybe towing our own car doesn't earn us redneck status, but it is something you don't see in this town every day, as was evidenced by the amused looks we received along the way. So, folks, if you ever need a tow, forget Triple A--just give us a holler.

heart walk

2008-09-15T14:03:00.004-04:00

This past Saturday, I participated in the Start! Boston Heart Walk with Steph, my best friend from high school. Steph came up with the idea about a month ago, having seen the flier somewhere, and we've decided to do the walk every year in memory of our dads (Steph lost hers when we were teenagers). The 6.2 mile course started and finished at the Esplanade, right alongside the Charles River.

Before the event, friends kept asking, "So when's your race?" "It's a walk," I had to keep reminding them. And yes, walking, rather than sprinting, across the finish line was a rather new experience for me. But I have to say that I really enjoyed the pace. It's not often that I take the time to stroll along the river with a good friend, especially one I don't get to see very often. Despite all forecasts to the contrary, the weather was lovely, the Boston skyline was picturesque, and the conversation was easy and constant.

On the Hatch Shell, one or some of the members of the J. Geils Band were playing old J. Geils hits. Crossing the finish line to the tune of "Love Stinks" was a little anti-climactic, but overall, the event was well-organized and fun. Thanks again to all who supported me.

(not so) exotic visitor

2008-09-15T13:53:00.004-04:00

On Thursday, I was trimming the shrubs in the front of our house when I came upon this long-legged arachnid. He was perched on a parchment-thin web, and when he heard me exclaim, "Wow!" he moved on top of his prey, as you see him doing in the photo. I hadn't ever encountered a spider this glamorous in Connecticut. Bryan suggested that the spider had ridden in on an imported bush, and we decided that a spider so colorful must be poisonous.

On Saturday, my mom looked him up on the web. Based on the markings, he seems to be a Yellow Argiope, also known as a Garden Spider, or Writing Spider (apparently there is a legend in which the Argiope writes a person's name in zig-zag the night before the unfortunate victim's death). We were all a little disappointed to discover that the spider is actually quite common, distributed fairly evenly throughout the lower 48. But it was a neat encounter nonetheless, and the little creature takes quite a stunning photograph.

timber!

2008-09-04T15:10:00.004-04:00

Two weeks ago, we took down the 30-foot spruce tree that adorned our side yard. Bryan had talked about doing this for years, but I was resistant to the idea. I loved the tree. It was very north woods, and if I blocked out the surrounding suburban capes, I could pretend, as I sat on the patio, that we were living somewhere in Vermont.

Bryan doesn't like to hire professionals. And to his credit, he is a jack-of-all trades. But that didn't make me any less apprehensive about his insistence on taking on the task himself. But he was right: the tree did need to come down. When he took a few branches off, I could see that it was leaning quite precariously in the direction of our bedroom.

My friend Anne and I returned from a trail run on the designated morning to find the kids running in the yard, and Bryan heading for the tree with a chainsaw. Anne looked frightened, but tried to keep her composure. "He's, uh, really just gonna go right at it, huh?" She looked at the kids, who were oblivious to the scene.
I laughed, because I knew he was just making a few cuts. Anne was relieved.

After clearing off all of the bottom branches, Bryan found some straps and tied the tree to the trailer hitch on the pickup truck. We sent the kids and the dog next door, and I was instructed to "put my foot on the gas, gently, until the tree starts to lean."

Not a difficult task, but one I was hesitant to take on nonetheless. I did as Bryan said, then turned back. I was aware of two things happening in the same moment: Bryan yelling either "Noooo!" or "Go!"(the distinction seemed an important one), and the tree falling straight toward the bed of the truck, and, by association, me.

I was motionless for a few seconds, stunned. The tree is falling, I thought. The tree is going to fall on me.

And then I heard a "thump," and it was over. And the tree was in the middle of the yard, having just missed the truck's bumper. No damage to the garden. A perfect bullseye.
Here are the part-time arborists cleaning up the mess.

We had no idea the Yankees did charity yard work.

We put a cute little dogwood in place of the spruce. In the end, I think the yard is much more aesthetically pleasing. I'm not in Vermont, but suburban CT has its charms, I guess.

shout out

2008-08-29T13:18:00.004-04:00

How can I even begin to express my gratitude to everyone, for everything? I've been buying thank-you notes with every intention of sitting down and filling them out, but the quiet moments are so few and far between that when they offer themselves, all I want is quiet. I will write them, I promise, but in the meantime, I wanted to give a shout out:

--to the aunts who sat with me through the whole ordeal, who made me laugh and let me cry, and who provided the necessary words, hugs, babysitting, and meals.

--to my cousin Karen, who slipped into my house while we were on vacation, mustering up the courage to go through our dirty, ancient basement by the light of her cell phone, and then cleaning our house, top to bottom, so that we wouldn't have to return to squalor.

--to the friends and acquaintances who brought meals when I didn't feel like cooking, and to my pal Stacey, who made the arrangements..

--to my Wednesday night running group, and to the parents of two of Dylan's classmates, who sent Edible Arrangements.

--to the friends who made the drive from CT (and NH), logging 300-400 miles in a day just to pay their respects and lend a shoulder (this means you, Kristen,Fran, Anne, Kim, Sarah, and Stacey!).

--to the many, many wonderful folks who called, mailed cards, sent positive energy, gave me space when I needed it and company when I craved it.

--to Bryan, who whisked the kids off to Vermont when my father first passed--even though he was grieving, too--so that Dylan and Lexi might salvage a little of their vacation.

--and to everyone who has donated to the Heart Walk, which I'm doing on Sept. 13 in memory of Dad. Thanks to my generous cousins, aunts, friends, and in-laws, we've already raised over 700 dollars. You rock!

Have I forgotten anyone? I'm sure I have. You can bet this entry will have some amendments. In the meantime, though, just wanted to say a big, hearty thanks. How blessed I am.

treat family camping trip

2008-08-22T22:05:00.004-04:00

We spent a few days camping in Jamaica State Park, VT. What a lovely campground--and that's coming from a curmudgeon who prefers wilderness camping.Dylan and Alexa with cousin Emma Treat, who was visiting from Seattle.
We met this dude on the hike up to Hamilton Falls.
Alexa contemplating whether to put her feet into the icy water.
Dylan makes a face for cousin Kylie (Treat).
Bryan dipping Dylan into the drink.

on trail running

2008-08-16T15:10:00.009-04:00

On weekend mornings, before the sun gets too hot and the air too heavy, I like to visit my personal temple, the trail. When I discovered trail running, back when I was living in Colorado, it was like a revelation: how wonderful to be able to marry my two favorite activities, running and hiking. It added to my running a spiritual dimension, as I have always felt closest to "God" in the woods and on the trail. There's something so invigorating about the feeling of mud on my calves, of leaves under my feet, and something rejuvenating about the mental challenge of negotiating roots and rocks and streams without any time to plan my next move.

The solitude of the trail is much like the solitude of the temple: it gives me time to breathe, to contemplate, to meditate. When my brother Michael died, I was very pregnant with Dylan, and so trail running was out of the question; however, I took long walks in the woods of Brooksvale Park, and often, during my rambles, I could feel Michael's presence beside me. Sometimes I would cry, sometimes I would smile, and sometimes I was simply complacent as I experienced this closeness, however real or imagined.

Since Dad died last month, I have muddled through my runs, forcing myself to put in the miles because I know I'll feel worse if I neglect my routines. But with the New Haven 20k on the horizon, this morning I awoke and said, "12 miles, baby, whether you want to or not." I fed Sasha and we headed to Brooksvale. Midway up the first hill, I thought of Dad, thought of how the woods will always bring me closer to Dad because he loved being in the forest, especially when it included sitting by a campfire with his family. Once, after we had quarrelled, he wrote me a long, beautiful letter in which he said that the crackle of a fire always brought him back to the camping trips we took in our younger days, and went on to say how overjoyed he was that his children had inherited his love of the woods.

Of course, thinking of Dad made me cry, but it was a cathartic cry (which made my nervous dog throw her ears back and look at me sideways), and in my grief I could really appreciate the time that I did have with my Dad. I was grateful that he had gotten to take at least one camping trip with my children (and two with Dylan), even if it is likely that Alexa's memories of him will be muddy at best. Such remembrances don't really make his passing any easier, but they are a welcome distraction from the sadness.

Lately, I've been reading Thich Nacht Hahn, the Buddhist philosopher, who says, to paraphrase, that if you accept that all things are impermanent, you will be able to fully appreciate them while they grace your lives. He adds that thinking deeply about this concept and embracing it as part of your consciousness will allow you to "smile through your grief." Now the last part feels a little farfetched to me, but I have been trying to focus on the memories rather than the loss.

Okay, so I've digressed a bit from my original topic--trail running--but it was the run on the trail this morning that brought me here.

I've also been re-reading Wordsworth, one of my old favorites, and I stumbled upon a poem I hadn't read before, one I found slightly amusing: "To a Young Lady, Who Had Been Reproached for Taking Long Walks in the Country." It called to mind 18th and 19th century novels, where women often "take ill" because they dared to walk a quarter-mile in the rain and their soaked layers of clothing (petticoats, bloomers, stockings) brought on a "deathly chill"(likely a pretty good case of hypothermia) . I considered how I would have appeared to a 19th century gentleman at the end of my run today: sweat-soaked shirt and bandana, socks and shins covered with mud, face red with effort and exhilaration. Surely I would have been reproached. Would Wordsworth have spoken up for me, or would the horror of such an image have caused him to faint?

In typical fashion, the poet lets his emotions overflow, and idealizes the daring young lady in his passionate pastoral:

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
--There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbour and a hold;
Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be
A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
And treading among flowers of joy
Which at no season fade,
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,
Shalt show us how divine a thing
A Woman may be made.
(excerpted)

Though I sometimes find Wordsworth a bit overdone, I've always felt a kinship with him for that very reason: in all honesty, I, too, am about as sappy as they come, especially when it comes to my emotional reactions to nature. When I first visited the Grand Canyon, I wept; same thing happened when I stood beside the Colorado River in Moab, Utah.

So, it makes sense that the trail is my temple. I'm thinking of becoming a "religious fanatic" and forsaking road races for trail runs, but I'm sure the racing bug will return, as it always does. And trail running doesn't always necessitate solitude: at least once a week, I'm joined by my running pals, most of them female, and the sense of community, too, is a wonderful thing. In fact, it seems as if more and more of my running friends are putting aside their fears of broken ankles and coming to appreciate the wonders of the trail.

In wildness is the preservation of the world.--Thoreau

snail surprise

2008-07-28T14:00:00.004-04:00

This afternoon, as Dylan was eating his sandwich, I brought in some lettuce from our garden for a lunch time salad. After a few minutes of chopping and slicing, I had a bowl full of vegetables we had grown ourselves: along with the lettuce, there were fat cucumbers, plump cherry tomatoes, snap peas bursting from their shells, and lush green beans. I garnished the salad with some craisins and walnuts. "Look, Dylan," I said proudly. "Almost everything in my lunch was grown right in our backyard."

Then, as I went to pick up my bowl, there it was: a snail, lounging casually on a piece of lettuce, its slimy body stretched out to its full length so that I might admire its dimensions. Somehow the Escargot Special seemed a little less appetizing than the salad I had envisioned. But it was a welcome bit of comic relief.

grief

2008-07-24T14:06:00.009-04:00

Mornings are the hardest. Especially this morning: a dark, humid, gloomy morning when I was dragged from my sleep by the sound of heavy raindrops hitting the windows. In the morning, it’s real all over again, and I have to work through my tears and talk myself into breakfast, laundry, dishes, and even play. A few deep breaths, a few cups of coffee, and we’re off. I can go through the motions, but it’s hard to imagine that I will ever experience joy in the same way I did before last week.

The audacity of the world, that it should continue to turn.

Around midday, I try to become a Zen Buddhist. Death is part of life. In spite of my emotional nature, I have always been able to rationalize tragedy. Things are meant to happen. With Michael’s death, I was devastated, but it was logical, if not comforting, to say he was “better off.” He’d struggled with addiction for so many years, and it was leading him down some very dangerous paths. “He’s in a better place,” Joey said to me, and though I was grieving, I had to agree. Michael had never been at peace with himself, and now he was resting peacefully.

But Dad? I’ve been unable to utter such platitudes. I think there must be a reason, but what it is, I have no idea. At times like these, I wish I were religious, wish I could put unquestioning faith in something, some deity, so that I wouldn’t have to question. I do find comfort in thinking that Dad is with Michael now, that maybe Michael needed some guidance in the great beyond, and the great power, or powers, chose Dad as his angel. I guess that makes some sense, brings some solace.

Two weeks ago, as we were getting ready to go on vacation, I thought about my connection to my parents, and felt, in some ways, like a kid: I often called my Dad for advice, talked to both of my parents a couple of times a week, made the two-hour drive to Waltham on a regular basis. “Is this normal?” I wondered. But then I didn’t care. I enjoy their company, enjoy seeing their delight in their grandchildren. A few days later, I lost Dad. Does this mean I’m a real adult now?

There’s a sense of panic that comes from losing a parent. I feel it most intensely in the early hours of the morning, when everyone else is sleeping and I try to imagine life without Dad. I convince myself I’m in the midst of a very long nightmare, but no matter how hard I pinch myself, I can’t wake up.

But I know this grief, at least as I’m experiencing it now, is temporary. I know I’ve been extremely fortunate to have had such a close relationship with my Dad, to have created so many memories with him—good, bad, humorous, sad, tender, silly. And I’m fortunate to have had a father who was loved by more people than I ever imagined, as evidenced by the never-ending line of people at his wake, friends and acquaintances who uttered phrases like “wonderful man,” “real gentleman,” “proud father,” “hard worker,” “funny bastard.” And the outpouring of support and goodwill has been more than touching. Once again, I am grateful for my oversized extended family, the multitude of aunts and cousins and uncles who have provided comfort, food, babysitting, anecdotes, levity, tissues. I love my chaotic clan.

And I’ve learned not to question how people grieve, or how people respond to grief. It’s touchy and awkward, and sometimes people simply don’t know how to respond. My good friend Steph said, when I called her, “I don’t know what to say.” And I was so grateful for that, for her honesty, for crying instead of trying to find the right cliché.

Another friend, the daughter of my Dad’s old buddy (who is also my godfather), was even more primal in her response. Although we hadn’t spoken in 20 years, she called to offer her condolences: “That #@*%ing sucks!” she exclaimed. And after 20 years, we were easily re-connected by a couple of appropriate expletives.

And then there is Mom, my incredibly strong Mom, who has lost a brother and a sister and a mother and a father and a son and a husband but who still finds the strength to comfort her children, to play with her grandchildren, when even getting out of bed in the morning must feel like an insurmountable task. Amazing, wonderful, Mom.

The philosopher Kierkegaard said that suffering is the origin of human consciousness, but sometimes I’d rather be oblivious. Nevertheless, I know that even if the grief doesn’t pass, it will diminish until it is merely a dull ache, an ache that will eventually be overshadowed by the memory and spirit of “the old man.”

I thought he’d live forever
He seemed so big and strong
But the minutes fly
And the years roll by
...

I never will forget him
For he made me what I am
Though he may be gone
Memories linger on
And I miss him, the old man

--from “The Old Man” by John McDermott

eulogy

2008-07-18T12:59:00.005-04:00

Frederick J. Dowcett

June 18, 1946-July 13, 2008

Dear Dad:
Ever since you left us five days ago, I have been thinking about how to commemorate you in a way that truly honors your spirit. Given your legacy, I knew this would be no easy task.

The other night, as I threw pitches to my son in the park near your house, I was suddenly back in our yard on Dartmouth Street, where you threw me endless line drives, grounders, and pop flies in an attempt to bring me a little closer to my dream of being half as good as my teammate and brother, Joey.

When I set off to write your eulogy, I started walking, looking for solitude but not quite sure where I was headed. My feet took me to Nipper Maher Park, the site of so many childhood memories. I passed by the hill where you took us sledding. I passed Diamond 3, where you watched me play baseball. I sat at a picnic table near the Senior Field, within view of our first house, the house you rebuilt from the bathroom up.

I could simply list your virtues, but anyone who knows you can attest to your capacity for hard work, for fun, for love. So instead I will just share a few favorite memories that illustrate the kind of person you were: you taking my amateur novel and turning it into a beautifully bound book; you flying out to Colorado for my graduation even though you were terrified of planes; you swinging Dylan around in the surf on Cape Cod, and you snuggling on the sofa with Alexa, holding hands and watching Frosty the Snowman.

And I would definitely be remiss if I did not mention your lawn, that gorgeous lush green carpet of grass that was the envy of all your neighbors.

Your friends and family, in expressing their condolences, keep saying the same thing: “He was so proud of you kids. He talked about nothing else.” This sums you up, Dad: you were a true family man, full of selfless love and compassion, and my gratitude runs as deep as my love for you. We have been so blessed. I can’t imagine my life without you, but I know you will take good care of Michael. Rest in peace.

anniversary

2008-07-11T13:32:00.006-04:00

On this day six years ago, Bryan and I woke up single for the last time. Thought I'd take a little stroll down into July 11, 2002.

We woke up on the lumpy bed of our VW Westfalia, which was parked in the driveway of our friend Matt's place in Anchorage, Alaska. I peeked out of the pop-top to check the weather: overcast. Not a good sign, considering we were planning a ceremony on top of Flat top Mountain that evening. I wasn't too worried, though; good fortune seems to follow Matt everywhere, so I figured we had that on our side.

Inside Matt's, we drank coffee and planned our day. Matt emerged from his room. "You guys write your vows yet?" he asked.

Bryan and I looked at each other guiltily. "No," we admitted, swishing our spoons around in our granola. "But that's the first thing on our list today!" I added optimistically.

We'd chosen Matt to perform the ceremony. In Alaska, anyone who fills out the proper forms can be a certified Marriage Commissioner for one day only. Matt had enthusiastically agreed to perform this duty, but we knew our lack of preparation had him concerned. He wanted a speech he could read in advance, something he could look over at work that day. But we were in vacation mode, perpetually procrastinating.

"Don't worry," I assured him. "There will only be a few of us there. You don't have to say anything profound." He looked dubious.

We promised to get on it right away. And we had the best intentions. Matt suggested the coffee shop inside Title Wave books, which had good ambience and decent space. We followed his advice and headed down to Northern Lights Boulevard.

Which is the home of one of the largest REI stores in the U.S. So of course we got distracted. But we didn't entirely neglect our duties: I bought a white technical shirt to wear up the mountain, as well as some white hiking shorts, and Bryan bought himself a black top. There: we had our tux and gown.

And we did finally make it to Title Wave. Armed with coffee, notebooks, and pens, we sat down to write our vows. We knew what we wanted to say, but we didn't want it to sound corny or contrived. Here we were discussing the goals for the rest of our lives a few hours before our wedding. I had performance anxiety. "You're the writer," people always say in these situations. "What would you say?" The pressure was on. I had so many opinions about marriage and relationships, yet at the moment, I was at a loss for the right words. We looked at each other. Why was this so hard?

It was hard because it seemed redundant. When Bryan and I decided to get married, we had known each other for almost ten years, as friends and as a couple, and we were so in tune with each other's values and desires that writing vows seemed like an afterthought.

But we wanted to do this right. So we took big sips of coffee and wrote down our promises to one another.

The clouds drifted away as the morning dwindled into afternoon, and then evening. We met up with Matt and two other friends in the Flat top parking lot at 6:00. We had left a message for our good buddy Jon, a.k.a. "Burly," earlier that day, but figured he was off on a climbing trip, since he never returned our call. The sun, a near-constant presence in Anchorage in July, was still high in the sky. The alpine wildflowers were vibrant: purple, white, yellow. Sasha, our dog, took the lead, watching out for bear scat and moose tracks and other signs of wildlife. Having spent so many hours on the couch in the VW, she was exuberant, and she danced over the rocks like a deer.

We weren't the only ones who had chosen Flat top as a celebratory destination: when we arrived at the peak, around 7:30 pm, there was a child's birthday party in progress. Fortunately, the summit is large enough for several events.

Just as we were about to begin, a tall, lean figure in a button-down shirt came into view, running toward the summit, and then stopping to look around. It was Burly!

"Just got your message two hours ago," he said, out of breath. And then he walked me down the "aisle."

Matt's friend Dean filmed the ceremony. Matt gave a short, unprepared speech about how he had come to know me, and then Bryan, and then we moved on to our own words, recounting the evolution of our friendship, how we had come together, drifted apart, and come together again.
And then, of course, the vows. The sky was open, and the views were stunning: the Chugach range, Cook Inlet, downtown Anchorage draped in the orange rays of the sun. It was a perfect evening, a perfect spot.

After we exchanged rings and kisses, Matt pulled from his backpack a bottle of champagne and a pint of Ben&Jerry's ice cream. The wedding of my dreams.

And afterwards: beer and pizza at the Moose's Tooth, which has a fantastic selection of both. Matt's roommate, Brandy, and her boyfriend (now husband), Ben, had gotten there early to decorate a booth with streamers and bells.

Six years and two kids later, I still feel blessed, and though I probably (okay, definitely) would not have chosen Connecticut as my home, I really can't imagine spending my life with anyone else. Happy Anniversary.

hush, little baby

2008-07-03T14:22:00.004-04:00

Recently, my friend Stacey quit her job in order to stay home with her kids, who are 3 and 1. Almost every semester, I have considered following the same path, especially when my briefcase is full of unread essays and my children are visibly frustrated by my preoccupation with work. "If I stayed home," I often think, "I'd have more of myself to give to the kids, and more time to write." Sure, it would require some financial finagling, but it would be a worthy sacrifice.

Last week, I was putting books in the bookshelf, clearing away the pile of Little Critter and Dr. Seuss and Eric Carle books that Alexa had strewn about the floor. During the school year, when it's nap time, I'm running around like a crazy woman, trying to organize and read papers and write lesson plans, always looking anxiously at the clock and hoping this isn't the day Lexi decides to give up her naps. But last week as I cleaned up kids toys, I realized, quite suddenly, that I wasn't stressed out. Wow! I thought. I could really get used to this. I'm more patient. I'm writing. I'm sleeping better at night. Now why, I thought, did I decide to sign on for that Writing Fellowship?

I talked to Stacey. "You know," I said, "I'm really envious of your decision. I think I could find staying at home fulfilling."

Stacey looked at me sideways. "Is Dylan out of school yet?"

"No," I replied. "One more week."

"Talk to me in two weeks."

So Dylan has been out of school since last Friday. And I love that kid dearly, I really do, love his energy and his sweet temperament and his quirky humor.

But damn, that kid is garrulous. Extremely garrulous.

I can hear my mom laughing and saying, "It's payback time, baby!" From what I'm told, I started talking at 18 months and never stopped. And Bryan and Kaytie can testify to my late night bouts of chatter, episodes that required them to pull the plug or threaten me with duct tape. So I shouldn't be surprised. And I should be more patient. But it's the end of Week One, and I'm going batty. I don't think I can count the number of times in a day that I hear "Mom, guess what?" And often the response is something like, "I washed my hands," or "I put my cup in the sink." I've tried to express to Dylan that there is poetic value in silence, that it can be a beautiful thing, but I probably haven't been a very good role model. Tennessee Williams once wrote that "Silence about a thing magnifies it," but Dylan is a firm believer in the power of the Word, or words--lots and lots of words.

So I guess I'd better get zen, because if Dylan is anything like his mom, this isn't going to be a phase. But on the positive side, he has a lyrical soul, and often uses creative--and appropriate--adjectives to enrich his stories, and that, of course, warms my literary heart. And he's teaching me patience, I hope, because I know that it's my job not just to listen, but to hear, and to draw him out rather than shut him down.

And yeah, sometimes it's hard to say something other than, "Oh, really?" even though he knows when I'm appeasing him. Even his sister has been known to throw a superficial, "Wow--cool!" in his direction without looking up from her book or her Little People. But I know we need to nurture his little spirit, as noisy as it may be. And even if Dylan can barely spare me a moment to blow my nose without showing me something or asking me a question, I'll take the constant chatter over reticence any day.

He's quiet now. Whew.

21 for a night

2008-07-02T10:10:00.004-04:00

Before this past Monday night, it had been several years since I had seen a show in a venue as large as the Comcast Center (formerly Tweeter Center, formerly Great Woods) in Mansfield, MA. And the last time I had seen Pearl Jam there was in, I think, '91, during the Lollapalooza tour, when they played with the Red Hot Chili Peppers and several grunge-era bands (Soundgarden? Alice in Chains? Who can remember?). So I experienced quite a bit of culture shock as I entered the grounds of the outdoor stadium on a sweltering June evening, surrounded by an eclectic mix of fans: middle-aged couples of respectable income; bandana-sporting transients from Seattle and Vancouver; testosterone-laden twentysomethings from the 128 belt, and the four of us: Bryan, my sister Kaytie, her friend Jess, and me.

I confess that I was almost giddy with anticipation. Pearl Jam tends to sell out shows in about 10 minutes, so in all honesty, I'm so out of the loop these days that I don't usually even hear about a show until it's too late. And I generally try to avoid large concert crowds, which means that when we see shows, we tend to go to quaint little music spaces such as the Calvin Theatre in Northampton and the Somerville Theatre outside of Boston.

I'll spare you the details of the parking lot (not much has changed, except that there is now a "premium parking" lot where you can pay $40 and be in and out, as opposed to waiting in a long line of cars. Extortion!).

As we filed slowly up to our seats, sweat and beer and cigarette breath surrounding us on all sides, I wondered, "Was it always like this? And what exactly am I doing here?" But once I was able to breathe again, and once the band took the stage, there was no question. I didn't stop to think "am I too old for this" as I whooped and danced and sang along to old classics like "Elderly Woman behind a Counter in Small Town" and new protest songs like "No More War". And as Eddie Vedder belted out, in his hypnotic baritone, the opening lyrics to "animal," and I leaned over to Kaytie and yelled, "How does he do that?" she responded, "I don't know, but it's funny how easily I can be reduced to a lovestruck adolescent."

And as corny as it is, I had to agree. "I know!" I squawked. "I want to marry Eddie Vedder right now!" And we both swooned over his long, sweat-soaked locks and scruffy beard. The man is sexy, there's no question.

And now it's too days later and I can recollect my emotions with tranquility, as Wordsworth would say, and reflect with amusement on my silly girlish declaration. But it's fun to be 21 every now and then, and what better outlet for that energy than a Pearl Jam show? A little bouncing and howling every now and then keeps it fresh, no?

And in keeping with the decadent spirit, Kaytie and I, staunch advocates of the "whole foods diet," punctuated the show with a mustard-covered hot dog. Guess that's what passes for radical in our world these days :]/

before and after II

2008-06-25T14:48:00.004-04:00

the labor: harvesting strawberries in the fields of North Haven

reaping the fruits: there's nothing like home-made strawberry milk! (except, of course, Quik)

before and after

2008-06-25T14:41:00.003-04:00

"Mommy, I wanna go on the tire swing!"

"Wheee! Tire swing fun!"

"I don't feel so well. . . ."

peanuts and crackerjacks

2008-06-25T14:27:00.004-04:00

Summer in our house means lots of baseball, and here's how our little enthusiasts are responding:

Dylan
Despite looking like a devoted citizen of Red Sox Nation in the above photo, Dylan's favorite activity is pretending to be Derek Jeter. He's wearing his glove right now as he watches TV, and he'd probably wear it in the bathtub if he could. So, given Jeter's sportsmanlike nature (yeah, I said it), and Dylan's mild demeanor, I was a little surprised at where his imagination took him the other day. He ran into the house with his glove and ball and said, "Mom! You know your favorite pitcher on the Cincinnati Reds?"

He meant Bronson Arroyo, who used to play for the Sox, and on whom I have a bit of a crush. I nodded.

"Well, he just got knocked down by a ball that Derek Jeter hit!"

"Dylan!" I said, surprised. "That's not very nice."

He looked confused. "But Derek Jeter didn't mean to. He didn't know where the ball would go!"

"But Dylan," I reminded him, "you made the story up." He had no response to that one. No word yet on Arroyo's condition.

Alexa
Today, when I went to pick Alexa up from daycare, Miss Ann told me that they had been talking about friends: friends' names, favorite friends, what it means to be a friend, etc. When asked who were her favorite friends, Alexa replied, "Morgan, and Josh Beckett." Who knew? Maybe she can get me Red Sox tickets.

for the love of dog

2008-06-25T14:10:00.003-04:00

Studies have shown that pet-owners live longer, happier lives. Apparently, the joy one experiences from petting a dog, snuggling with a cat, or caressing a ferret (?) triggers the "happiness" chemical, which in turn reduces stress, which in turn contributes to one's longevity. And I get this, I do: what's better than consistently being greeted by a panting, exuberant, ridiculously jiggly pup? And black labs, in my experience, make great running partners.

So here's how my dog brought me joy yesterday: I arrived home from strawberry picking to find chewed-up foil packets scattered about the floors. It took me a moment to discern what they had once been. A quick investigation proved that they were packets of sweet, sugary, sticky (this being the operative word here) flavoring for coffee, accessories for the Flavia instant coffee machine we received as a gift a couple of years ago. These packets were stashed in a box underneath three other boxes in our extra bedroom. They've been stacked there for at least a year, and we generally leave this door open.

Let me backtrack a bit to tell you how I had spent the previous day. While Alexa napped and Dylan read books on the couch, I put on the gloves (well, not really) and did a relatively thorough cleaning (for me) of the extra bedroom in preparation for some guests who will be arriving on Saturday. I moved bags and boxes to the basement, washed and vacuumed the carpets, rearranged furniture. At the end of the day, I proudly displayed my work for Bryan, who was visibly impressed with the room.

Back to our life-enriching pet. Something must have been in the air on Tuesday, something that smelled enticingly like vanilla and chocolate and Snickers. And what was in the air ended up in Sasha's teeth, and then, of course, all over the carpet, so that walking in the extra bedroom was like wading through a marvelous sticky morass. And oh, how I expressed my joy in that moment!

To many more years of dog-owning bliss!

hail to thee, blithe spirits

2008-06-20T09:28:00.003-04:00

it's official: the boy is a convert

2008-06-10T14:40:00.004-04:00

On Sunday, Dylan took his Dad to "Ankees" Stadium for his birthday. It was about 102 degrees in the Bronx, but Dylan was a real trooper. It was painful for me to have to play a role in Dylan's conversion, but I thought he should see the original Yankee Stadium with his Dad before it gets torn down.
And it was bat day! So, Dylan made off with a fancy Louisville Slugger, his new favorite toy (watch out, Alexa!). This photo conveys the effects of the heat rather than Dylan's excitement, but you get the idea.
Now I'm no Yankees fan, but Derek Jeter does have a nice, um, uniform, doesn't he?

if you build it, they will come

2008-06-10T14:27:00.004-04:00

For the past several months, the residents of Cheshire have been watching the construction of a new playground next to the town pool with eager anticipation. A few weeks ago, the playground finally opened, with much pomp and circumstance, and man, did people come! The Cheshire Herald reported that 800 people showed up to the ribbon cutting (we were included in that number).

I know, I know: a lot of hoopla for a playground, you're thinking. But what a playground! Most of the funds came from companies and private donors, and it was great to see so many folks come together with a common interest: a safe (but not obsessively so), friendly, and enclosed play place for kids--active kids.
The climbing wall looks so real you expect to see water trickling through the crevices. This, and the spider web (below) are, by far, Dylan's favorite attractions. He's a pretty natural climber, so this is definitely the park for him.
The spider web is actually quite tall, so tall that when Dylan made his first full ascent, I was biting my nail and trying to disguise my rising sense of panic as my mind calculated the potential damage to a 4-year-old body. But he was extremely proud, and yelled to everyone who could hear, "Look at me! I'm at the top!"

With gas at 4.35 a gallon in this area, and with the park in walking distance, I'm pretty sure we'll be hanging out here a lot this summer. And did I mention the town pool is right next door? So, instead of going to Colorado as originally planned, we'll be staycationing at Bartlem Park (and spending a week at a cabin in Vermont--ahhhhhh. Can't wait).

nipmuck trail marathon: a gathering of friendly die-hards

2008-06-03T16:10:00.005-04:00

Warning: It is possible to get a serious injury in this race. If you run recklessly you'll increase your chances but even if you are careful it's still possible to get tripped up or slip on something. This could result in an immobilizing injury that could put you a few hours away from medical attention. It could mean expensive medical care and an extended period of time away from work. To run this race you have to accept full responsibility for what happens to you. If you don't have health insurance don't do this race. No matter how careful you are plan on falling.

(excerpt from NipMuck Trail Marathon application)

On Sunday, June 1, I ran my first trail marathon: 26.4 miles on the NipMuck Trail in northeastern Connecticut. This year marked the race's 25th year anniversary, and some of the runners looked as though they had been running it since its inception: in the last third of the race, I caught up to a lean, muscular, grey-haired fellow who informed me that he had recently celebrated his 79th birthday. And it took me four hours to catch up to him. Hope I'm still dodging roots and rocks and landing softly in muck when I'm approaching my octogenarian age!
This photo of the inside of the port-a-potty, taken by running photographer Scott Livingston, really captures the spirit of the race. Race director "NipMuck Dave" brings an in-your-face humor to the event that keeps die-hard trail fanatics coming back. The application declares that "All complaints about getting lost will be laughed at." Fortunately, the trail is very clearly marked, and Dave manages to round up scores of volunteers who really make the event possible. Many, many times during the race I thought I was done; my legs would lock up in protest and insist they couldn't take me another step. A few minutes later, I would stumble upon an aid station, load up on Gatorade, potatoes, bananas, and chocolate, and somehow I would get through another hour.
A trail marathon has been an aspiration of mine ever since I discovered that such things existed, which I think was back when I was living in Anchorage and hiked Crow Pass, the site of the infamous Crow Pass Crossing, a trail marathon rife with black bears and bees and water crossings. I never did run that marathon, and at this point probably never will, but NipMuck was an incredibly exhilarating--if excruciating-- experience. Trail races are, in my experience, more informal affairs than road races: they have to be, as the measurements are inevitably imprecise, a runner's performance is subject to any number of obstacles, from twisted ankles to wildlife to slippery rocks, and it's even possible to lose your way, in spite of the bright blue blazes. After a few hours, you begin to hallucinate a bit, and it's easier than one might think to get turned around. But the genuine camaraderie that one encounters on the trail gives an exhausted runner a mental push. While it is a race, and folks are vying for position, the runners look out for one another, so you never feel as though you are out there alone.
The application states that if you add an hour to your slowest marathon time, you'll get a rough estimate of your NipMuck Marathon time. This was pretty true for me: I managed to finish in 4:54, which allowed me to meet my goal of running in under five hours. But holy hell! I was more tired and sore than I have ever been in any other marathon, including Boston, which always does me in. When I called Bryan to tell him I'd made it out alive, I was biting my lip to keep from crying. But when it was over I proudly carried my souvenir trophy--a piece of wood with a blue blaze painted on it and a laminated piece of paper that read "25th Annual NipMuck Trail Marathon--to the car and drove my aching body home.
When I ran my first marathon, my friend Amos said, when it was over, "Now you never have to do that again!" I felt that way immediately following NipMuck, but now I'm starting to think about shunning all road races and sticking exclusively to the trails. So maybe another NipMuck will make the race calendar. We'll see how I feel when I recover. . . .

riding in cars with noise

2008-05-29T14:10:00.005-04:00

Something happens to me when I get into the car without my kids. When I put the key in the ignition and back out of the driveway, away from the endless loop of "Mom?" and the cute but sometimes tiresome questions about who makes the road and why the sky is blue and when can I go to the bathroom, I am suddenly overcome with a craving, a need for really loud music. And generally really raucous music. Yes, my musical tastes have mellowed and matured as I've gotten older, but when I'm alone in the driver's seat, I am suddenly nineteen again, at a Lollapalooza concert with my long crimson hair and nose ring, rocking out to the Smashing Pumpkins or the Beastie Boys or Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (who I still love, by the way). Alone in the driver's seat, I summon my old pals Pearl Jam or the Red Hot Chili Peppers and press the "+" on the volume button until electric guitar is streaming wildly from the speakers. On the road, especially the highway, where I'm less likely to be spotted by a parent of one of my kids' friends, or a student, I can bellow along to Eddie Vedder with feverish abandon, until my throat is scratchy (this used to happen often when I was commuting back and forth from Burlington, VT every other weekend to visit Bryan here in CT) and my ears are ringing and I'm out of breath.

And there is another kind of freedom that comes with these solo car rides: the freedom to swear, to --dare I say it?--yell the "f" word as the lyrics require. Now, I'm not given to dropping expletives in my every day speech, but there's something liberating about being able to belt them out without fear of having them repeated back to me in toddler-ese. In the car alone, my inner twentysomething is released, and it feels soooo good. Each tune is like one of Proust's petite madeleines: my whole body shudders with the memory of a city where I once lived, a mountain I once hiked, a friend I once had. The other morning, on my way to physical therapy, Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" dropped me into 1984, when I was on the cusp of adolescence, fervently writing fiction on my typewriter in the basement of my parents' house, imagining novels drawn from Springsteen's motley characters and New Jersey backroads; driving later that afternoon, Widespread Panic's "Travelin' Light" transported me to Red Rocks Stadium in Denver on a hot July day in the mid-90's, the air pungent with sweat and draft beer and sweet gange fumes; on another drive, Pearl Jam's "Rearview Mirror" has me driving a minivan from Boulder to Portland, Oregon with five other folks from Sierra Club, on our way to a conference. At twenty-two, the Age of Narcissism, I didn't need to be alone in the car to sing without restraint, to let the lyrics punctuate my mood: Saw things clearer/Once you were in my/Rearview mirror

On the way home from nursery school, of course, we're back to the Wiggles or "Baby Bunglebee," as Lexi likes to call it, but that's okay, too, because, truth be known, I'll sing along to anything. Well, almost anything. And belting out "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" requires a certain shrugging off of inhibition, too, and there's no shortage of memory-association with these innocent tracks, whose words seem to have been preserved in the far recesses of my brain all these years.

After silence, that which comes closest to expressing the inexpressible is music. --Aldous Huxley

kid-ness

2008-05-09T21:40:00.006-04:00

Free man, you will forever love the sea!
The sea's your mirror, you observe your soul
Perpetually as its waves unroll
(Baudelaire, "Free Man and the Sea")

There's almost nothing I enjoy so much as watching Dylan and Alexa on the beach. The wide open expanse of sand and sea seems to incite in them a primal joy that ignites their spirits from the moment their little toes touch the shore. And those same little toes are impervious to the water's icy chill: while I quickly withdrew my own foot about a nanosecond after I decided to test the temperature, they raced toward the waves without hesitation, not stopping until they were waist-deep.

Alexa became one with the ocean: she emerged with hair full of sand and seaweed, her skirt and diaper soaked through, her skin glistening with salt and granules. "That's a big pool," she declared happily.

It was Dylan who initiated the impromptu yoga session (see above photo). I guess the sound of the surf reminded him of those "sounds of nature" yoga cd's.

I used to worry about how being a parent would inhibit my innate love of spontaneity. All that planning: diapers, food, extra clothing, bathroom stops, et cetera. But we drove out to Hammonassett State Beach on a whim, in the middle of a Friday afternoon. I threw a few necessities into a bag, grabbed the sunscreen, and we were off. And as I sat back on the sand watching my children frolic, I realized that while I can't exactly run off to Colorado or even New York on a moment's notice, I can still derive great pleasure from basking in Dylan and Lexi's unbridled joie de vivre. It's spontaneity of a different nature: the thrill of being "surprised by joy" in observing the simple beauty of kids at play. None of the photos I snapped accurately captured the vivacity of the moment, and by summer's end, the kids will likely have forgotten the trip altogether, but for me, so much of what makes the memory precious in the pure sense of the word is that I'm acutely aware of the fleeting nature of little kid joy. Before long, Dylan will be checking out the chicks in bikinis, and Alexa will be worried about how her behind looks in her own two-piece (which, by the way, had better not have anything scrawled across the butt! God, how I hate that fashion trend!).

But there's no point in dwelling on the future when the present is so much fun.

Live in the sunshine, drink the sea, swim in the wild air. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

in the contact zone

2008-04-24T22:39:00.003-04:00

In class, we have been discussing "contact zones," which writer Mary Louise Pratt defines as "social spaces where different cultures meet, clash, and grapple with one another." Here, Dylan, our perpetual peace-maker and product of a "mixed" family, emerges from the contact zone as one very confused child.

"It's all good," he says with genial defiance. "I like the Red Sox and the 'Ankees'."

In his innocent attempts at neutrality, he struggles to understand the groans and grimaces that always follow this statement.

A budding Mets fan, to be sure!

weekend in the whites

2008-04-10T16:06:00.004-04:00

We love our kids dearly, but ohhhhh, was it nice to get up to the Whites for the weekend. We drove up to North Woodstock, New Hampshire (after dropping the kids off at Grammy and Grampy's in Waltham) in a steady torrent of rain and arrived on Friday evening at a cozy, unassuming little B&B called the Wilderness Inn, just south of Franconia Notch. On the itinerary: food, drinks, sleep, food, mountains, rest, food, friends, food, drinks, sleep, food, home.
Saturday found the Notch socked in, but as we snow-shoed up the Appalachian Trail toward Liberty Peak, the sun made an appearance for a few glorious moments to open up the wide expanse of the White Mountains, which were still covered in about 3 and a half feet of snow. And despite the low grey clouds, we managed to do the entire hike without getting rained on.
On Saturday evening, we drove over the Notch to Bethlehem to see an old friend, Teresa, and her family. Teresa opened up a hip new restaurant last year--Bailiwick's--in Littleton, and after some appetizers and drinks at her house, we went to see the place for ourselves, and my, were we impressed--not only by the eclectic and sumptuous menu, but also by the charming and classy interior, which Teresa had designed and decorated herself. Check it out if you are in the area.
By Sunday morning we missed the kids, so I guess the trip did the trick--though I'm sure that, before long, we'll find ourselves saying, "I could really use a weekend away!"

responsible citizenship

2008-04-08T22:07:00.003-04:00

In the spring of 1998, I read E.L. Doctorow for the first time, Ragtime being one of the books assigned for my Postwar American Lit class at Colorado State University. At the time, American Lit wasn't really my thing; I loved the big, fat novels of 18th and 19th century England, novels by Jane Austen and Henry Fielding and Samuel Richardson. At the time, I didn't think too much about why this might have been, but in thinking about it now, maybe it was because I still saw literature as an escape from reality, rather than a means artfully illustrating reality and all of its magnificent follies. Doctorow once said that, in writing Ragtime, an historical fiction novel that takes place at the turn of the 20th century, he wanted to tell "how it felt" rather than just "how it was."

Ragtime touched me not only as a reader and student of literature, but also as a writer. It opened my eyes and my mind to the possibilities and powers of fiction. Part history, part make-believe, part social novel, Ragtime was a novel of truths, truths that were only partially rooted in fact. In weaving together "made up" characters like Younger Brother, Mother, Father, and historical characters like JP Morgan, Emma Goldman, and Houdini, Doctorow illustrated the politics, mores, and social crises that comprised this point in history. And I was blown away.

Tonight I went to see Doctorow speak at Western New England College in Springfield, MA. He's a speaker who makes you pay attention; he is soft-spoken, but each sentence is dense, so that you have to strain to hear, and then take a few seconds to process. He spoke on the topic of "Texts that Are Sacred, and Texts that Are Not." In the last few years, Doctorow has sparked some controversy by criticizing President Bush in print and at certain college commencement ceremonies. Doctorow has responded by saying that he wants to mix "celebration and joy with responsible citizenship." In tonight's lecture, he questioned writers who attribute their "gifts" to divine inspiration, implying that such a statement is presumptious; true writers are "non-sectarian" and have faith in an inner power (I'm not doing Doctorow's fine speech any justice here). As he concluded, he spoke again of our President, wondering at his presumptious "alliance" with God, at the awesome power this assumes. I'm hoping the text will be available in print some time soon.

As I was standing in line to buy a book, I looked over and saw a somewhat familiar face. I couldn't place it at first, but then I realized it was the professor from my class at Colorado State, the one who had first introduced me to Doctorow. By some strange coincidence, he's now the head of the English Department at Western New England College. Small world.

Doctorow has just published a book of essays called "Creationists," which I'm hoping to read soon.

the pioneer spirit

2008-03-28T14:44:00.005-04:00

A couple of months ago, I saw the film "Into the Wild," and shortly afterward re-read the book, which I had first read in the late '90's, when I was living in Fort Collins, Colorado (or maybe it was after I had moved to Anchorage; I can't remember exactly. I do remember reading Jon Krakauer's original article in "Outside"). I'm glad I took the time to experience it again. On the first read, I was living amongst somewhat extreme mountaineers and adventurers, and, being young and impressionable, I confess I jumped on the bandwagon of head-shakers who dismissed young Chris McCandless as naive and arrogant. For those who aren't familiar with the story, Chris McCandless was a kid in his early 20's who, upon graduating from Emory College, donated his 24,000 dollar trust fund check to Oxfam America, then shed his identity and his possessions and took off on a year-long odyssey around the country, and, ultimately to the Alaskan interior, far from civilization. With little knowledge or preparation, he was able to survive off the land for four months, living in an abandoned bus, eating plants, small game, and the rice he'd packed with him. When he finally decided to hike out and re-join the world, he found that the small stream he'd crossed in the spring was now a thunderous river, one whose current would easily take him out. Distraught, he went back to the bus; he had no map of the area, and was possibly too weak to seek an alternate route, as his journals indicate that he was either injured or starving or both. By himself and terribly lonely, he died on his sleeping bag in the bus; he either starved to death or ate a poisonous potato plant.

After re-reading the book, I was no less convinced that hubris was in part responsible for McCandless' death, and I didn't forgive him for forsaking his family and assuming a new identity, but I did read with a sense of awe, and even respect, that I didn't feel last time around. McCandless was highly influenced by the literature he read, especially Thoreau, Tolstoy, and Gogol. And, like most people in their early 20's, he was opinionated, naive, and rebellious. But these qualities found their extreme form in Chris McCandless. I can't help but wonder at the awesome sense of morality and purpose that incites someone so young to essentially drop out of society and turn almost entirely to nature. On the one hand, this seems so entirely misogynistic; yet, he was able to form fulfilling relationships along the way, and many who were interviewed by Krakauer for the book found themselves spiritually touched by his presence. This was especially true of "Ronald Franz," an 80-year-old man who, after meeting McCandless, sold all of his possessions and moved out to the beach.

I'm always drawn to "pioneer stories," especially contemporary ones, because at this point in time, we are so disconnected from nature and from the land. John McPhee's "Coming into the Country," in which he spends a year in the Alaskan bush, is one of my favorite books. I understand and identify with the pioneer spirit, and sometimes read with wistful longing, even though my Alaskan experience was limited to Anchorage and Fairbanks and the wonderful mountains surrounding those places. So even though I find myself angry with McCandless at times, I'm still haunted by his story, and wish I could know more. Like, what was he feeling during those long nights in the bus, his companions the bears and moose and porcupine and relentless mosquitoes? His journal entries are curt, and mostly describe what he caught or ate. And then, at the end, his loneliness: "So lonely. Terribly lonely."

The film, despite some drawbacks, did capture the mood of the book quite well, and I have to say that the ending scene just blew me away. I won't give it away, but it's definitely worth seeing. And Eddie Vedder's soundtrack to the film is equally intense, if not more so (you can hear a clip from his song "No Ceiling" if you go to "Profile" here on this blog and then click "audio clip"). "Long nights allow me to feel I'm fallin', I am fallin' safely now, to the ground. . .ahhh."

One of the aspects of a great book is that you carry it with you, that you wrestle with your feelings and find yourself going back to it again and again. In this, "Into the Wild" is a great success, at least for me.

(the above photo is McCandless' "farewell photo". The paper in his hand is a goodbye note.)

just for fun

2008-03-23T16:55:00.005-04:00

Couldn't resist dressing them up for the holiday (and believe it or not, the bottom photo is a candid one)

welcome, spring

2008-03-23T16:40:00.004-04:00

It's hard to know how to talk about and celebrate Easter with your children when you are not religious. We have had this discussion often, Bryan and I: how do we instill spirituality and a sense that there is something "out there," something that is looking out for their well-being, without subjecting them to dogma? We have considered the Unitarian Church, and my friend Heide, who is dealing with the same religious questions, has recommended a book called "Parenting Beyond Belief," which I intend to read in the next couple of weeks.
In the meantime, there was Easter. For me, personally, Easter is about resurrection, just as it is for Christians, though not so much the resurrection of Christ, but the resurrection of life in the buds of trees, the blossoming flowers, the return of various birds, and the vitality that comes with all of the colors of spring. So last night, we went to the Ansonia Nature Center for a "welcome spring" drum circle, and this was a good way for us to connect, for Dylan and Alexa, the Easter holiday with something tangible: the arrival of spring. Dylan was more interested in the playground and the remote-controlled cars zooming across the baseball field that was across from the picnic pavilion and bonfire where the drumming took place, but Alexa really got into it, banging on her Guatemalan drum and, later, dancing. She has proclaimed herself a drummer, so perhaps she will follow in mom's footsteps and be a percussionist-band geek. In any case, I enjoy witnessing the musical spirit in our kids, whether they are strumming the guitar, blowing on the mouth harp, or trying to keep up with Paul McCartney as he sings "O bla di, O bla da" (which Lexi sings as, "O bla di, o bla da, life goes long johns!").
Happy spring!

the longest mile(s)

2008-03-23T16:24:00.004-04:00

Last month, we spent a night and day in Keene, New Hampshire, catching up with some dear friends: Amos and Emily, who hosted dinner at their apartment in Keene, and Matt, who was visiting from Anchorage. Amos and Matt were my adventure-buddies when I lived in Burlington, VT, and we have stayed in touch via a regular email forum for the last several years, visiting once or twice a year.
The morning after our dinner was frigid but beautiful: blue skies, billowy clouds, and so much fluffy white snow. We ventured into Pisgah State Park--Amos, my sister Kaytie, and our family--for some much-needed snowshoeing. It was soooooo lovely to feel powder beneath my snowshoes, and to see and smell real, honest-to-goodness winter everywhere. Dylan was a natural on snowshoes, even though it was only his first time out. We were so proud.
That said, snowshoeing is a much different affair with small children. The 3-mile round trip trek took us several hours, and by the end, Kat, Amos, and I had to muster up all the good humor in our reserves to get Dylan up the hill and over the mental hump. Halfway through the hike, Alexa, who hadn't slept the night before because we were in a hotel, had entirely succumbed to her exhaustion. She fell asleep in the backpack for a bit, and then, waking to find that she was still on the damned trail, no closer to bed or warmth, she made us aware of her fury by way of a long, loud wail that slowly transformed into a fit of screams. Poor kid. When she wore herself out, she fell asleep in Bryan's arms (see below). He hightailed it back to the car and warmed her up, while the rest of us finished the trek at a Mt. Everest pace: step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Dylan, no less garrulous on the trail than he is at home, felt the need to stop every time he began a new story. I was very fortunate in my hiking mates: Amos and Kat are as witty and good-natured as they come! So a few setbacks, but an enjoyable day nonetheless for all but our tired little girl.