the one thing

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

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

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

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

(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

“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

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.