fresh start

It's early January, it's a Saturday and it's rainy. I just got home from a shopping trip downtown and returned with two boring things: a pedometer and a new yoga top. This is not about New Year's resolutions. At all. I don't believe in those. But something about this soft, quiet, wet day inspired me to think forward. Holy crap, I'm going to have a baby in two and half months. 

It knocks my breath out to climb a few stairs. How the heck am I going to make it through child birth??

So the top is to encourage the inner yogi in me and the pedometer is to remind me to get off my butt and walk.

And the return to writing? I guess maybe that is some kind of resolution. But I hope it lasts. My friend share an article recently about the therapeutic nature of writing. Something I've always known to be true, but have lost sight of. It was a good reminder. So there you go. 

Hello again!

http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2014/01/01/258674011/editing-your-lifes-stories-can-create-happier-endings

in the middle

Lately, in the last few days, I've been sitting here—in my big chair by the window—wondering what I should do next. I get home from work and it's still light out. I sit down and grab my lap-top with ambition, only to realize that there's nothing that I must do right now. What a strange feeling. I don't have my check-list I've gotten so used to over the last year. It's too early to go out in the garden (isn't it?). Too late to go running before dinner (isn't it?). And then it occurred to me: maybe I should get in the habit of writing again. I used to do it every day! Can you believe it?

Now that I think of it, there are other things I'd like to do (is it weird I always get that nesting feeling in the spring rather than the fall?): I'd like to paint some more rooms. Start some tomato plants. Make a photo book from the wedding and honeymoon. Start drawing again. We'll see how long these goals last...

In any case, see? I just wrote 2, now 3, paragraphs about nothing.

At least I wrote. There's 4.

this is how I write when I'm rusty

I just need to type something, anything to get the cobwebs out...

Today feels like one of those days when the act of writing about it is more significant than anything that actually happened in it.

Maybe that's because any kind of writing for myself at this point feels like a huge, significant task. But I must write, so...

I feel like today could easily be forgotten, as early as next week even.

Except that today is today, and no other. I put on a great outfit in the morning. (So into green & navy right now!) I had a good commute to work—what a gorgeous morning. I had some great business partner meetings all by myself. I got stuff done. I moved things along. I felt totally in control. There was no drama. And if being near perfect makes the day feel insignificant, then what the heck is wrong with me?

Do I crave drama and obstacles to feel significant? Perhaps. Yes, I think I do. Then maybe I should be more thankful on all the other crazy, annoying, irrational days that I have something to worry about.

At least on a day as near perfect as today my head is clear enough to sit down after work and write something for myself--even if it's about nothing. And totally stupid. And I'm putting the cats to sleep with my typing. At least I did it.

basking

Every time I sit down to write this post, I come up blank. Part of me doesn't want to write it, because if I do it means that the one I wrote before it won't be at the top of the page anymore. Plus, whatever words I choose sound trite. Is it okay if I stay quiet for a few more days? I think I need to bask a little longer...

jellyfish

Have I told you about the jellyfish at Hendricks Head?

When my dad became a preacher in 1985, he was assigned to a small fledgling church on the coast of Maine. We were living in the small town of Pawlet, Vermont at the time. We packed up and left our little house for good and headed off to Boothbay Harbor. I was just five years old.

We spent two years in Boothbay. They were magical years, despite some of our less-than-magical living situation. We lived first in a house in town. We were on the first floor and our landlords lived on the second. They were fighting all the time. Sometimes the little girls would come downstairs and stay with us until the fighting was over. Sometimes their mom's boyfriend would throw things out the window. I had the chicken pox in that house, after we went to England to see Gaffa for the last time. I think I got it from the cousins. I remember laying on the itchy couch and just couldn't get comfortable. Gaffa died shortly after. 

Eventually we moved out and went to live in a rusty old trailer right outside of town. One of the bedrooms was an addition and through the seam in the floor, you could see the ground below. That was where Hannah performed a seance with spaghetti and grape eyeballs. We all got in trouble. That was also where I got hit by a car riding my bike. I wasn't hurt, but the old lady driving the car had a scare.

The garden filled up with mud every time it rained. Mummy couldn't bring herself to tell Granny about the trailer.

We found solace in nature. We took swimming lessons at the Y and became very good little fish. So Mummy would bring us to the beach on Southport Island and let us swim far off to the back of the jutting rock that became an island surrounded by water during high tide. There, where the beach dwellers looked like baby crabs in the distance, we swam admidst the bulging beards of seaweed that swelled with the moving water. 

We were spooked by signs of life down below and scrambled onto the rocks, being careful not to slip in the slimy seaweed pods. There were mussels and crabs hiding beneath the seaweed tendrils. We knew, because in low tide, when their mop tops were pale and dry in the sun, we'd walk out and flip them upside down to reveal the wet squirming bugs beneath. But somehow, covered in dark ocean water, the tendrils came to life and were something less than friendly. 

On top of the small island, we'd run along the worn dirt paths and play "Let's Pretend"—an imagination game we made up on that rock and haven't really played since. "Let's Pretend" belongs to the rock at Hendricks Head. 

The road that takes you to Hendricks Head goes right by the beach where we played on the rocks. During high tide, the water rises all the way to the road, and the only thing separating you from the sea is a stone wall. At certain times during the year, hundreds upon hundreds of jellyfish congregate there to spawn. Some are left behind in the sand when the water recedes, so you have to be very careful where you walk, lest your feet get stung!

One night, my mother brought us there to watch the jellyfish. Have you ever seen a sea of spawning jellyfish at night? They glow electric blue. And the beach is transformed into a galaxy of stars, like a mirror of the sky above. It's pure magic.

I don't know what made me think of the jellyfish today or Hendricks Head. But I did, and then I wanted to write it down, so I don't forget. Although, I can't imagine that I ever would. Those memories are so clear in my head—they're unforgettable.

ugh, why do I get so nervous?

I just got home from the tech jam. It was very well-attended! So much more than I expected—I got very nervous at all the people staring at me—and did I mention they taped it for public access TV—and forgot half the stuff I was going to talk about. How do you forget what you do every day? It should be second nature. Well I forgot. And I got shaky. And half-way through I completely lost my train of thought and there was complete silence for about 30 seconds. How mortifying! Maybe no one even noticed...

While chaos was my inner monologue, the panel discussion actually went quite well—I think I was lucid enough to hand out a couple useful tips. And I met 3 really cool people:

Cathy Resmer, the online editor for Seven Days, seemed so happy to meet me and interested in what I do. Her enthusiasm calmed my nerves for a little bit. Turns out, our jobs are quite similar.

Steve Benen, a political blogger for The Washington Monthly—he writes every day for 9 hours straight!

And Marybeth Redmond from St. Mike's has such a contagious energy. I would love to take her course on converging journalism.

Too bad by the end I was so spooked, I booked it out of there so fast and completely forgot to say goodbye to Steve and Marybeth. So, if you're reading this, it was really nice to meet you!

what I do at work

Ever wonder what I do all day at work? Sometimes I wish I could get a glimpse into the day and life of some of my friends. Seriously, the only times we hang out are around food or a drink or Project Runway—who wants to talk about work outside of work? Well, I do, for one. Now's your chance to hear all about me (and other web writers) and what we do behind the curtain on a daily basis. You know you want to know...

This Saturday, I'm going to be a panelist for the Vermont 3.0 Creative/Tech Career Jam at Champlain College in Burlington. I'll be speaking on the "So, You Wanna Write for the Web" panel discussion, with Washington Monthly blogger Steve Benen and St. Mike's Journalism Professor Marybeth Redmond. Seven Days' Cathy Resmer will be the moderator.

We'll be there to talk about what we do, answer questions and share tips with people who are interested in pursuing our line of work.

And it's not just web writers either. There will be a whole slew of different companys and creative/tech careers represented. Here's a full list of panels and times. Ours is the first one of the day at 10 a.m. Cool!

today from Aunt Lucy

Dear Family,

Some of you have requested a copy of what I said at Mom's Mass so here it is. Also, here is a poem I would like to share with you by Lisel Mueller:

When I Am Asked

When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.

It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything was blooming.

I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.

I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.

Love, Lucy

*****

Mama Sonia's Eulogy

When I think of Mom some of the things that come to mind are: loving, generous, thoughtful, supportive, caring, laughing, wonderful food, music….

Wherever Sonia lived she became involved in the community and was very giving of her time and talents. She worked hard raising funds for the Eye Bank Assoc of Puerto Rico. When we were kids she was a Girl Scout leader and a Cub Scout Den Mother. When Mom & Dad moved to Florida one of the things she did was become a Meals on Wheels volunteer delivering meals to people who were much older at the time. Of course Mom did not just deliver meals they became friends-she knew their life history, she gave them birthday and Christmas presents… Also, she was Chairman of the Beautification Committee of the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce. Sonia was very involved with her Bible study group and her Tertulia group of Spanish speaking friends.

Mom’s thoughtfulness was especially evident in her gift giving. When you received a gift from her you could tell a lot of thought went into selecting the gift and the perfect card to go with it. About 10 years ago I mentioned to her that we used to see rabbits around our house but had not seen any evidence of rabbits for a long time. The following Christmas she sent us (2) cast iron rabbits for our yard. When I see those rabbits I’m reminded of Mom’s love and thoughtfulness.

One way Mom expressed her caring and generosity was thru her cooking. She devoted a lot of time and energy to the planning and cooking of amazingly good food. When we were kids every picnic on the beach, every dinner was a gourmet treat-a delicious leg of lamb (my favorite) would be followed by a scrumptious shepherd’s pie.

Mom & Dad were famous for giving great parties in Puerto Rico-relatives and friends knew that a party at Roger & Sonia’s would be lots of fun with great food. Thirty years ago when they moved to Florida, Roger and Sonia continued to give wonderful parties.

Mom loved music-some of my favorite memories are connected to music. When I was a little girl we would listen to opera on the radio. As we listened to operas such as La Boheme, Aida, La Traviata she would be explaining what was happening.

Mama Sonia had a special relationship with her grandchildren. She relished their visits both in Florida and Vermont. She had all sorts of activities planned for everyone’s enjoyment—museums, concerts, shopping, Disney World, Sea World and every other kind of world.

Mom and Dad had an extraordinarily wonderful relationship, an example to be followed, and now they are together again.

england bound

I know I've mentioned this before, but since this is now the only thing I can think about right now, I'll mention it again: we're going to England. We leave in just two days! The only thing that lies between now and then is one day of work. Oh, and the packing. I detest packing. I always fear that I'll forget something. Or pack too much. Or pack something too soon. What if I need it?

But the whole packing thing isn't enough to deter me from travel. Especially if it means we get to see our long lost cousins. Our aunties and uncles. To taste Marmite in the mother's mother land. And for Col and the whole family to be there with me.

Anyways, I just wanted to mention it one more time, because—in the true spirit of vacation—I'm leaving my laptop behind. So... now you know. That's where I'll be for the next week or so. Not here. Not blogging. Just enjoying life. And I'll have lots of stories and pictures for you when I return.

Speak soon!

before or after the quotes?

It's true—at one time I was a complete nerd. Maybe I still am. Actually, yes, I'm quite sure of it. But if I am, them Emi is too. After a lovely meal chez Soeur, she and I sat down to (1) fill out a spreadsheet of what to pack four our trip to England—column one for checked baggage, column two for carry-on and (2) converse about the rules of punctuation usage around quotes.

It's easy to get wrong. But in general, the smaller punctuation marks—the periods and commas—are always included within the double quotes.

She said, "You're my friend."

On the other hand, question marks, exclamation marks and the like should go after the quotes.

Do you like the phrase, "You're my friend"?

But if the quoted material is itself a question, then the question mark goes before the quotes.

She asked, "Will you be my friend?"

This is all well and good—if you're American. The English put the period after the quotes. And while we Americans cringe at the use of single quotes (unless within the doubles), apparently the English don't mind either way. And that's why my British mother gets away with both here.

While I'm left wondering, "What's the point of it all?"

pregnancy, plums, peas, and a painting

I wrote a poem about plums once—I had a bowl of perfectly ripe plums ready to burst. Seeing the plums and holding them in my hand reminded me of a pregnant woman's belly. So I wrote about it. I wrote about what it must feel like to lose control of your own body. To have to displace a piece of your body to make room for a new one. It might get messy at times, but the ultimate joy it elicits has no match. But there's also an element of fear there. Fear of the unknown, for, truth be told, I don't really know what it's like being pregnant. My friend Elisa does though. She wrote this week's posting for Eat Peas Weekly.

Pregnancy is in us all I suppose—well, us women at least—whether we've experienced it or not. Whether we like it or not. Even if we never get pregnant. The idea of pregnancy is ingrained subconsciously in our biological and psychological make-up. But I didn't always think this, or think about it. Yet the feelings and the shapes would always surface unexpectedly in my creative output.

I remember during my final senior art show as a student at Middlebury College, a woman from the campus newspaper came to interview me and review the show—a culmination of 4 years of intense work and exploration. She mentioned an apparent pregnancy theme in all of my female figures. I think I returned her comment with a blank stare. If it was indeed there, it was purely unintentional and I told her so. But looking now, I'm in awe that I—the creator of it—could not see such an obvious statement in plain view. It's there, is it not? The pregnant woman in the painting, flying through the air (jumping or falling?) gracefully full speed ahead. How could I be so blind to it? Or so dismissive?

it's about time

Here I am sitting with my laptop, watching T.V., checking e-mail, reading magazines—everything, in fact, to avoid what I should be doing: writing. I never get writer's block, but for some reason the last couple weeks have been painfully void of any words to spare. I'm feeling laconic, and I'm feeling guilty about it.

The thing is, once you slip your rhythm, it's all too easy to say, "I'll get back on track tomorrow." Before you know it tomorrow becomes next week. Next week becomes next month. Next month becomes next year. And next year might as well be never.

So here I am sitting with my lap top writing whatever I can think of. Colin's still at work. He's been working a lot over the last few weeks and I can't remember the last time we had alone time together. We're supposed to hang out tonight. But he just called and has some urgent matter to take care of at work and so he wants to take me out to a late dinner to make up for it. We're going to Smokejacks. I hope we can get in this time.

And here are some other updates:

• Went to Newport this weekend. Tried the goose, but I liked my roasted vegetables and cheesy polenta better.
• Went to my dad's church and learned this proverb: "A foolish man lets out all his wrath, but a wise man keeps it back quietly." And this one, which I love: "Pleasant words are as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones."
• Went to book club last night to discuss our most recent selection, Water for Elephants. Loved it! Kind of reminded me of the HBO series, Carnivale, mixed with Waiting for God, that funny Brit-com on PBS. But it's a book, of course.
• Scooped a lot of kitty poop and tried to teach Suki how to lick her butt. Her butt really stinks.
• Finally, I just remembered that season 4 of Project Runway premiers a week from today on November 14. It's the only show I really care about and I'm panicked that I'm going to forget to watch it. Will somebody please remind me?
  

i don't know

I'm feeling like a failure right now with my writing... too tired to write anything. I'll have something soon. Promise.

stream of colin-ness

“Can you write about rainy day weekends and how they make you wanna hang out and be with the cats and think about what movie you wanna see and what popcorn you wanna eat. It could have a light coating of Parmesan cheese or even taco seasoning. I don't know.

“Sometimes I get the urge to order chicken wings in the morning for breakfast. It's only 8:35 though. I just made coffee. Coffee and chicken wings would not taste good together. Fresh pineapple would be good though.

“When I opened up my eyes this morning. I thought it was snowing. But then I realized my eyes were still hazy. But, it reminded me that winter is soon on its way and we'll soon wake up to snow-falling skies. Which will be NICE!

“My back hurts. I could probably use some Advil. It's from lifting boxes yesterday at our Trailer Trash party at work. It was fun, because we gave people the option to partake in the most extreme challenge--or should I say challenges. They ate pickled eggs. Cat food sandwiches. Chugged milk. Swallowed spoonfuls of cinnamon. Chicken winged outerwear dressed bike marathon challenge. That was fun to watch. All of this to get their free Burton outfit for this coming season.

“Yeah, I think going to see a movie is a good idea today.”

letter from maman

I got this email from my mum today (she never e-mails) and I enjoyed reading it so much, I decided to post it. She's from England, by-the-way...

* * * * *

Papa and I watched 'The Queen' last night. Papa cried. I thought it was very well produced, and they seem to have pinpointed the characters to form. What I found poignant was the relationship of Charles to his parents. As a child, he had very little, if any, cuddle-time. Nanny was the one constant, while his parents went about their business of state and commonwealth. As an adult, he still feels the distance, coldness and ridicule for his so many inaptitudes.

The other scene that left a mark was Her Majesty, stuck in the river, having a little moment of sorrow, and, turning, there he was, the most majestic stag on the entire 4,000+ acre estate. She shooed him away with her scarf. She turned briefly, and he was gone. On hearing of his ultimate demise, she drove over to the next door estate, which housed the weekend business man who had shot the stag. The gamekeeper showed her the stag, hanging unceremoniously from a hook in the game room, head laid aside to later adorn the great hall of some cold castle. She gently touched his head, noticing that he had been wounded, not a clean kill, as with Henry's Anne. The stag had to be tracked for miles before he was finally put out of his misery. Here was majesty, tracked down and felled.

What strong abodings... Our house is full of ladybugs. Papa has painted the front door a delicious umbric red, and has been chopping and stacking wood. I have been gradually putting the garden to bed: tying up the raspberries, mulching them heavily with peat moss and leaves. I made the most delicious soupe a l'oignon last night, with a slice of toasted Ezekiel bread atop laden with cheddar cheese and popped under the broiler til bubbly and golden brown...simply delicious. Papa went crazy over it!

I tried to take the DogAge Test the other day, which is quite involved, and was almost at the end, where I would get the results for Sadie Wall when it suddenly disappeared, and was gone forever. It took so long to get that far, that I just didn't have the energy to go back and do it all again. They can get stuffed! Sadie is great. She spends her outside time pretty much creeping up on the squirrels as they feed at the bird feeders, then tearing madly after them as they scramble for safety in the retaining wall, or up the pine tree, screaming bloody murder at her for her impossible rudeness!

Latin goes well, and is progressing nicely. I am quilting a lot these days. Wait till you see what I'm up to now... It's a beautiful Sabbathday, so I must needs get me back into the garden... the lavender is in full bloom again! Crazy! Who would think it that it's late October, and 74 degrees F. Love to Colin...I'm really excited about our trip to England. Al of us! What a hoot!

Love, Maman xxx

time spent...

I've been spending too much time lately doing things other than writing. Like, perfecting my apple crumble recipe, for instance (tonight the almond crumb topping was divine). Or watching a whole season of Sex & the City in one sitting (it's that time of year, the nostalgia's setting in). Oh, and working. Which doesn't involve much writing at all these days, despite my job title.

It comes in waves. But lately, all I feel is regret for the hundreds of creative things I COULD and SHOULD be doing. The things that were always so important. Like writing. And drawing again. And sewing. And reading. And singing. And, and, and...

Am I lazy? Or just focused? To be fair to myself, the crumble IS getting good. And look, now I'm WRITING about my crumble.

Speaking of Sex & the City and food. I found a great quote for Eat Peas. It's from the Real Me episode in season 4. Carrie says:

When I first moved to NY and I was totally broke, sometimes I would buy Vogue instead of dinner. I just felt it fed me more."

eat peas weekly

Call me crazy, but I'm starting a new writing project, based on a suggestion by one Hannah Wall. It's called Eat Peas Weekly—essays on nourishment every Monday, and in it I hope to publish new writing by a different person each week. If you have something to contribute, I would love to post it, so send your writing my way! (or just comment on the blog).


Love,

filling in for lost memories

Sister Hanushka wrote a fabulous little tale of our red house where we grew up in Pawlet. Being five years her junior, I didn't share a lot of these memories--or wasn't privy to them at the time. But reading them now, I too can exist in that story of once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after...

I had a dream last night. I was in the house that we grew up in, the red one that burned down in Pawlet. Each room had layers and layers of wallpaper coating the walls, and I was looking for a specific one, cream background with brown illustrations of ladies in hoop dresses. There were so many different patterns, and I was peeling them back to find the one I was looking for. In our bedroom, (all three of us shared one little room) I peeled and peeled until I got to the last layer and it was A.A. Milne style portraits of we three girls. Read more.

what is up?

I cannot believe two whole weeks have past since Colin left for Hong Kong. I cannot believe a whole week has past since I wrote in my beloved blog. The clean laundry's been in a heap on the living room floor since Sunday. Phone calls left unreturned. Plants left unwatered. Dirty dishes in the sink.

This is not the normal me.

But the fact is, I've been working hard. For the past month I've been so consumed with my new job at EatingWell, the rest of my life seems to be passing by right beneath my nose, unnoticed.

I love my job. I'm a Web Producer there, which means I get to do everything from designing and building web pages to creating recipe collections and editing articles. Oh, and I get to taste-test new recipes too!

cacophony

There are endless sirens today, it seems. Even moreso up here at sky-level on my porch, where one siren sounds like fifty, echoing off the pavement, the rooftops, and up over the trees.

It's hard to tell where they're coming from. They just well up like a cloud of noisy dust, from the pavement to the sky to my ears. Now there are motorboats on the lake. Loud and engine-y. The next door neighbors are having a party. They're swimming in the pool. They're playing basketball. I hear shoes scuffing the concrete like abrupt sandpaper. I hear the boom, boom, boom of the ball hitting the ground. The creaky high school boy voices. The clinking of forks on plates. Splashing. Dog barking. African drums floating over from Memorial Auditorium. The ferry honking its horn.

More sirens. Someone beeps his car horn somewhere towards downtown. Engines running. Engines moving. People laughing. Kids yelling. And my phone rings. I don't answer.

I'm silent. I'm all alone. It's getting dark.

Five quacking ducks fly by my view. In silhouette to the setting sun.

I hear crickets chirping. Another party has started down the hill. Sounds like: lots of men sitting around a game on the television. A can opens. A car starts.

The church bells strikes: nine times.

The party next door has ended. The engines soften, it seems.

Another church chimes further in the distance. I can hear jazz music rise up from Church Street. Quietly at first, then louder. A saxophone player practicing scales.

I still haven't spoken. I'm alone. What I sound like: click, click, click on my keyboard. That's all.

I look over to the chair next to me. There's Au Lait, my kitty. She's sitting silently next to me. What's she think about all this noise, I wonder.

I speak. "Hi, Girl. You want to go inside? Let's go inside."