Transition time

My new website is up and running and includes the first blog post for the new site. (https://writeonharlow.com/2019/02/22/lapis-for-love-for-friendship/) Take a look at the post and wander around the website–I’ll be adding more content over the next couple of weeks.

A kind person at WordPress migrated any followers who have signed up via email but those of you who follow me via Facebook will need to click on the link to the new site. And if you’d like to get email notification of new posts, click on the Follow button once you get to the new site.

Just for fun, here’s a picture of my new feline housemate, Mr. BellIMG_0365–I’m sure I’ll be writing about him on the new site!

 

 

Quick thoughts on a February morning

This will be the last post on this blog site but not the end to my blogging. I’m developing a new website and will be continuing to blog on that site. I’ll post the URL here as soon as the new site is ready for viewing.

*********

I’m sitting by the front window, 9:30 a.m. Sun again, blue sky, storm in the forecast. I’ve had my coffee, eaten some breakfast. Should I shower? Pull on jeans? Stay in my sweats to work? The essential questions of my work-at-home life.

I’m not sure what my writing work consists of these days. I’ve swooped into writing for quick hits and then flown off again. No deep dives. Shimmering in my brain, just at the periphery of mind-sight, is something about my sister’s fading and dying, something about ambiguous loss. Too soon? Maybe. Maybe not.

A friend called yesterday morning. She had an errand in town. Did I want to meet for lunch? A walk? Sure. We had lunch at a nearby cafe. I had breakfast for lunch, eggs scrambled just right with goat cheese, tomato, roasted garlic, kale, lick the plate clean food. Sun streamed in the windows. Outside, workers strolled by on lunch break from the construction project across the road; inside, the pleasure of good food and easy conversation with a long time friend.

After lunch we went for a walk near a stream and pond. We stuck to the road since we weren’t wearing boots and the trails were icy.  We remembered walks along those trails in times past and planned for more woodsy walks when the ice and snow melt.

We rounded off this “it feels like spring even though it’s not spring” excursion with a dairy farm visit and ice cream eaten at a picnic table with a view of fields, cows, hills.

If I were a diligent Instagram poster, I’d have recorded all these moments to post online thumb_IMG_0352but I didn’t—just a few pictures of the pond, the ice, the blue sky. Instead I use words to try to capture that feeling of sun (too soon for such warmth but oh so welcome), the squish of mud under foot as we walked to the picnic table, the sweet, cold ice cream bringing memories of summer evenings.

Sun now obscures the computer screen. I should pull down the shade but I love the warmth on my fingers and arms. The day stretches in front of me. What will I make of it?

 

About sunsets

I’ve set myself the task of photographing the sunset view from the end of my street at the beginning of each month this year. I’ll be posting these on Instagram (you can find me there @rvngrl89).

Here’s the January 1 sunset:

IMG_0267

 

And here is today’s:

IMG_0350

Finally, this poem from David Budbill:

WINTER: TONIGHT: SUNSET

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop

and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.

I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening

a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky.

 

Christmas and loss

My apologies for my long absence. This has been a time of transition and upheaval. I left my job of 17 years in early October with a plan to focus on my own writing, do some freelance work, and teach. I was—am—eager to move into this next phase and also a bit apprehensive and sorry to leave my colleagues.

I thought the job transition would be the primary story of this fall and winter. But, sadly, overshadowing the work transition has been the ill health and death of Barbara, my older and only sister.

A couple of days after my final day at work, I got a call that she was gravely ill. Her health started failing last winter and in April she went into a care home in England, where she’s lived for many years. I visited her in June and then flew to England again in October, after I got the emergency call. She rallied a bit while I was there but then went rapidly downhill through November. She died in early December

I’ve been writing during these months of blog silence and have just posted three backdated entries–I invite you to check them out:

Sometimes I need a list (October 26)

Rain then sun (November 8)

“Hope is the thing…” (November 14)

For now, here are some reflections on Christmas this year.

********

Sadness and joy can co-exist. That’s a lesson I’m learning and re-learning this Christmas season.

IMG_0216I put the Christmas tree up a week ago. I bought the tree in late November because the garden center quickly runs out of the small, table top trees I like. It languished in the dark, cold garage for weeks. I dragged my heels about putting it up because I was wary of the emotional impact, weighing the possible—probable—sadness against the pleasure I get from bringing the green and light into the house.

And perhaps if I’d waited until Christmas eve to decorate the tree, had the twelve lessons and carols service from King’s College, Cambridge, playing in the background, remembered sitting with Barbara in her English home watching the service in real time, the sadness would have deepened.

But this year I simply felt my usual mix of nostalgia and pleasure as I draped the white lights and hung the familiar ornaments, a few that have been handed down from our dad’s childhood tree, a few that friends have given me, some I’ve bought over the years. Under the tree I placed the wooden village that was under dad’s tree. I did not put Kris Kringle on the top. This is another ornament from dad’s childhood but Kris is old and fragile and now retired to the china cabinet. Instead I perched a cardinal, honoring our mom and her love of these birds.

As often happens when we’re living through an experience, gifts float our way. On a friend’s recommendation I listened to a recent On Being podcast. Krista Tippett’s guest was Pauline Boss, who teaches and writes about ambiguous loss, that loss you feel when a loved one is alive but lost to you for some reason, the loss I felt for my sister over the last few months of her life.

She talked about the “myth of closure.” “‘Closure’ is a terrible word in human relationships,” she said. “Once you’ve become attached to somebody, love them, care about them—when they’re lost you still care about them. It’s a different dimension, but you can’t just turn it off.” Grief continues and in some way gets integrated into our lives.

She also disputed the idea of the five stages of grief. She said that Kubler-Ross intended those stages to describe the experience of people living with terminal illness, not the experience of those left behind after a death. Instead, grief is episodic, kaleidoscopic, appearing and receding.

My grief for my sister often feels muted, subterranean and then fissures open and sadness bubbles up—I had a day like that on a recent Saturday. I took part in my usual Saturday morning routines—coffee with a friend, farmers’ market with another friend—but then in the afternoon I retreated to the couch and opened to a deep sense of loss. I sat with the feeling until it passed, as these feelings do, but was left with a lingering lethargy of spirit. 

But even when I’m not consciously feeling sad, I know my mind and body are absorbing the loss on some level. I read an essay by the Irish writer Derek O’Connor about his grief at his wife’s death. He describes a conversation with a friend who is a scientist: “She details the neuroscience of grief, how mourning is the process by which the brain repairs itself.” The neuroscience of grief—I want to know more.

I talked with my cousin Kathy shortly after Barbara died. She lives on the west coast and we see each other rarely but she’s family, she’s continuity. Her voice sounds like her mother’s voice and I remember that her mother sounded like my mother—echoes rippling out, bridging time and loss. Her parents and her only sibling are also dead. “We’re adult orphans,” she said. I take that in.

I spent Christmas eve at a dinner party with old and new friends and gathered with other friends for a meal on Christmas day. Both days were filled with laughter and connection, the warmth of good company. On Christmas day we toasted those who were missing from the circle, including my sister, and in doing so made a space for them around the table.

Someone once told me that decorations on a tree at winter solstice represent souls of the dead. A quick Google search yields one website that makes that point and then others that say the decorations represent wishes for the year to come. I choose to think of the tree as both—a nod to memories of those who have died and a nod, as well, to life and light in the darkest season.

****

Here are two previous posts about Christmas:

Homesick for Christmas

Kris Kringle

 

 

 

“Hope is the thing…”

Yesterday was another cold, rainy November day. A day for the couch and repeated naps. But there I was, out and about, wearing my bright blue raincoat. First stop Starbucks where I sat in the caffeinated warmth, tapping away on my laptop, putting thoughts on screen. Then on to meet a friend for lunch. She was reluctant to go out but succumbed to my assertion that soup and baked goods would do us both good. Unfortunately, the cafe was out of soup.IMG_0168

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul”—that line sang in my brain as I drove the rainy streets. Hope has been knocking on my door recently, let me in, let me in. I open the door warily and keep the chain on.

Over the past few days, I’ve been getting tweets from a conference for elementary and middle school educators–the theme of the conference is “hope.” One tweet quoted John Dewey: “Hope arouses in us the energy to change our circumstances, not to simply be optimistic or have wishful thinking that they will get better on their own…” Hmm….I need to sit with that one. Hope arouses energy—but don’t we need energy to hope?

I often use “hope” the same way I might use “wish” or “pray”—I look at tall trees swaying in strong wind at the back of the garden and say I hope they don’t get blown down and fall on my house or I write to a friend who’s been ill, I hope you get better soon. “Hope” in those statements has no agency—it’s a plea, an incantation set free.

But “hope arouses in us the energy…” asks me to think of hope as a muscle that needs exercise; an intention that requires action. Hope is not just a thing with feathers; it’s a thing with strong beating wings and heart.

Another tweet: In hopeless times, how do we foster hope in ourselves?

I think of myself as basically optimistic—and as I key that in, I immediately think “privilege,” I think “white,” “middle class,” I think back on a long history of things generally working out for me, of my sense of agency. But as I age, that optimism and belief in my ability to control and shape the future is tempered and challenged.

Where does hope fit in? What do I hope for? In hopeless times, how do we foster hope? What can I—we—do to counter hopelessness?

I’m tempted to end this with some wise or insightful statement, something forward looking. Instead, I sit with the questions. All I can offer is a circle back to the opening scene—on a dark, chilly wet day, we put on bright colors, step out the door, and connect—with our thoughts, our friends, the world around us. 

Sometimes I need a list

  1. I’m still waking early, as if needing to go to work. I look at the clock. Tell myself to relax back to sleep but it doesn’t work. I get up into the darkness and the cold. Coffee made and poured, cat fed, laptop at hand, I settle on the couch and watch the sky lighten up.
  2. Maybe I should switch my routine, sit in the comfy chair rather than the couch, face the other direction on the couch so I’m looking out the back window, sit at the dining table like I used to do when I only had a few minutes to sip and stare before shower, dress, breakfast, leave for work.
  3. Sleepiness lingers. I see neighbors walking by with determined pace, early morning exercise walkers. Maybe I should join them—but I quickly push that idea away. I prefer lounging in my pjs as coffee slowly wakes up my cells.
  4. What shape will my life take now that I’m not heading out to a job each day? I try to see that as an exciting invitation but anxiety and restlessness creep in. My house seems small. By mid-day I’m pacing, trying to think of someplace to go but all venues, except the library, involve spending money, which I’m trying not to do. I tell myself that one cup of coffee or tea at a local cafe won’t break the budget.
  5. My world is opening up, expanding beyond the confines of a job. I feel a clench of anxiety as I write that. As soon as the letters hit the screen, I counter the thought. What if I get sick? What if I (fill in the blank with any catastrophe)? I begin to delete the words then stop myself. 
  6. “My world is opening up” is not a conditional statement.
  7. I have lists of things to accomplish—calls to make; business cards to create; a website to set up; emails or letters to send to potential freelance customers; workshops to plan, advertise, organize. I have friends to check in with, a piano that hasn’t been played in a long time, leaves to rake, woodsy paths to walk, knitting projects that have lingered in a bag for years, a stack of books to read, stories to tell, words and more words to write.
  8. I’ve been playing a lot of online Spider Solitaire. A small internal voice chides me—you’re wasting time. But there’s something soothing about moving those cards around and satisfying when I win.
  9. I’ve been interested to see how my approach to the game has evolved with time and circumstances. When I was in England last week, wearing the stress and sadness of my sister’s situation, I couldn’t play—I’d try and then give up after a few moves. Now, I’m more patient. I still hit “new game” if the initial card layout doesn’t yield many moves but once I get going, I persist, undoing and trying new moves as needed until I hit the right sequence and the cards fall into place. And there’s a lesson there about play and practice and experimentation and finding my way through—and about knowing when to stop, bail out, start over with a new game.
  10. Bit by bit, may I open to my life, right now, in its messiness, starts and stops and do-overs, its pain, joy, excitement, sadness, anxiety, loss, contentment.   

Listen and let go

I seem to be blessed with the earworms I need to hear. “Today is a bright new day,” sung in tight three-part harmony, circled round and round in my brain as I woke this morning. It took me a minute to remember the song and the singers, then I placed it as a YouTube video I watched a few days ago. With the refrain softly circling in the background, I lingered in bed, cat snuggled under my chin, until I heard the coffee pot click on.

Coffee in hand, I moved to the couch where I looked out the front window at cloudy sky, green bushes and trees, a splash of pink crabapple blossom in the distance. Birds darted through the inkberry bushes, landing briefly on the feeder that I will soon take down.

Today is a bright new day.

The lawn is getting shaggy, spotted with dandelions—I need to mow. I don’t aspire to a weedless expanse of emerald green. My lawn is a mix of various grasses and weeds, including the dandelions that are springing up in their glorious yellow. When I first moved into my house I dutifully dug up the dandelions, just as my then next door neighbor did. I would see her crouched in her yard, digging out the long taproots and flinging the plants into a bucket. But I soon gave up on dandelion eradication and chose to welcome them as a sign of spring.

Gray skies have now turned to rainy skies. Lawn mowing will wait. I’m not an exacting or precise mower. I mow around the violets blooming in the side yard and the clumps of forget-me-nots that have seeded mid lawn. One summer I left a big patch of clover that the bees were feasting on. I take different paths around the yard each time I mow. Sometimes I take a freeform approach, circling and weaving, spiraling inward until I can stand in one place and push back and forth a few times and be done. Other times I revel in straight vertical or horizontal lines. No matter what pattern emerges on a particular day I always use the mowing as a time to check out what’s happening in the garden, pausing periodically to pull up a tall weed or simply admire the flowering quince or smell the budding lilacs as I brush under them.IMG_1001

 

Today is a bright new day.

In recent weeks, as the world feels increasingly perilous, as people close to me struggle with illness and depression, and as I edge toward a major change in my own life, I’ve alternated between bopping along on an even keel and then, bam, sliding down into sadness and anxiety. One day, driving home after work, I found myself inhabiting a fearful, pain-filled fantasy that my active imagination elaborated and embroidered, before I caught myself and shifted my focus outward: there’s the sycamore tree that has stood in that spot for hundreds of years, there’s a bank of tulips, a crabapple in full bloom, a dogwood.

My mood lightened and I resisted the pull back into the depths. Later, I keyed up a Tara Brach meditation which focuses on sounds. Guided by her calm voice, I listened to the here and now sounds, the overhead fan on the porch, the family talking next door, a dog barking, my cat meowing, the rumble of my tummy, the tight, sore muscle in my back, the worry that tugged at me. I listened but didn’t linger, and slowly my perspective shifted. I remembered to take things one step at a time, moment after moment, to stay anchored in the present. To listen and let go.

Today is a bright new day.