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!

on clyde pond

I always love going home to my parents' house. Going home to the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont is like going on retreat. No one will ever find you there. And once you arrive, you can finally breathe. This is not to say that Burlington is the rat-race. Not by any means. But in comparison to sitting in a canoe on quiet Clyde Pond, it might as well be.

Going home also means going to church. That's okay by me, especially since it's my dad who does the preaching and he's the best in the world. And not just because he's my dad. You'll always walk away from service with some kind of little nugget you can use to tackle the week ahead with joy and grace. And so I did this morning. But instead of walking, I decided to run--all the way to the house about 50 yards towards the woods--so invigorated was I from the good words and the gorgeous sun shining down my back. As I galloped down the path about a hundred tiny red butterflies seemed to burst from my feet and fly up beside me like dolphins, diving in and out of my sight. They followed me all the way. Good omen!

My dad and I took the canoe behind the house and put in at Clyde Pond, an old reservoir hidden among the woods behind Newport. Only the locals know about it, I think. For human visitors are few and far between. We paddled upstream to the Clyde River and my dad pointed to a stretch of shore where just last week he had seen a baby deer and its mother. In a strange way, I still felt the ghost of their presence there and couldn't help but recall a poem I once read by Mary Oliver in her stunning book House of Light. The poem called The Deer, depicts timeless, ever-present nature--like two deer walking in long grass as though time doesn't exist. The poem speaks to the strength and reliability of the wild earth. But it also voices a fear for its fleetingness. We need the make the most of every minute with earnest devotion.

Each of us is given/only so many mornings to do it--/to look around and love/the oily fur of our lives,/the hoof and grass-stained muzzle./Days I don't do this/I feel the terror of idleness,/like a red thirst./Death isn't just an idea./When we die the body breaks open/like a river;

As I was thinking about this--I could think for ever on this quiet, isolated river--I gazed among a patch of lily pads, looking grand like a hundred emerald sun dials, and saw a white flower peeking up from the water.

"Look!" I said to my dad, "the flowers on the lily pads are blooming!"

"Yup, waterlilies," he relied. "That's what we used to call the sailors."

"Really?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because of those hats they used to wear. You know, those white ones."

"Can we get close to it?" I asked. We paddled towards the lone bloom. In my thoughts, I imagined a handful of earnest sailors bobbing up and down on the water like buoys. Not the same effect really. I thought of Monet's large old paintings of waterlilies that I was fortunate to see up-close over the winter at L'Orangerie in Paris. If you are ever lucky enough, like I was, to see these massive round panels in person, you'll probably notice that they're surprisingly drab, albeit breathtaking. The flowers themselves are barely noticeable in among the grass and ripples and brush strokes. I guess that's why the painting are so famous--you have to squint your eyes a bit. They're gorgeous, but they do no justice to the waterlily flower that, in real life, stands out against the deep dark waters like a bright star in the midnight sky.

We were now close enough to the flower to touch it. I wanted to take a picture. But the lily seemed to be playing a game with me, ducking in and out of the shadows, in and out of the water, and only peeking out long enough to say, "Here I am, and here I go." Fleeting and exuberant, as only a real-life waterlily can be. Finally I got a snapshot. A quick snapshot of the yellow pollen mustache, the pointy white petals, the game of peek-a-boo to remind me of this fleeting moment and make it timeless.

Leaving my parents' is as thrilling as it is to arrive. There is no room for sadness, because your arms and your car are filled to the brim with fresh flowers and produce from the garden, clean laundry--line-dried and smelling like sunshine, new plants to add to my porch pot garden (this time I have two mint varieties and borage, whose flowers garnish any summer cocktail with a colorful flourish), and my parents' home-roasted coffee tickling our noses (oh, how Au Lait loves the scent of coffee!).

summer solstice, now it's the weekend

Colin surprised me with a phone call yesterday morning at work. He was calling from his hotel room in Hong Kong.

"What are you doing?" I asked in astonishment, knowing full well the cost of each and every word we spoke.

"I just really wanted to talk to you."

"Are you having a fabulous time?"

"I am," he said. After telling me about his productive day full of meetings and good work, he went on to describe his swanky hotel room--king size bed, two showers (one with a bath, one standing)--all for himself. He had just gotten back from the pool. It was 9 p.m. his time. I had just woken up a couple hours ago.

I told him about the solstice dinner I went to the night before at Becky's. Told him all the gossip he'd missed in just three days. And about the crazy lightning storm we'd had and the subsequent gorgeous Vermont weather we're now having in its wake. That's the thing about Vermont storms in the summer. They break the thick humidity and call on nostalgic, sunny, summer breezes that leave you reminiscing about summers of your youth on the shores of Lake Memphremagog and in the lush, grassy meadows of Shattuck Hill.

It was a lovely phone call--worth every penny. We were both bubbly and talkative. I hung up the phone feeling excited about the weekend to come.

Now it's Saturday morning and I'm heading out of the town to the above-mentioned childhood stomping grounds to stay with my parents for a night and a day. I'm bringing Au Lait with me. I might go canoeing with my dad. I might help my mother in the garden. I might cook up a fabulous summer dinner. I might go for a walk. I might read my book. I might, I might, I might...

the tower of babel

I've been thinking a lot about community these days. And in that context, differences as they translate into beauty or into conflict. Long ago, or so it says in the bible, humankind spoke one language. They were a unified people who, through the strength of many, worked together to build a tower into the heavens. God, seeing what his people had built, set about to prevent it by confounding the people's language and scattering them all over the world.

Nowadays, ethnic and religious cultures stand out in stark contrast against one another. When you meet someone who speaks another language the human differences are quite tangible. How can you connect with someone when you can't understand what they're saying? How can you build a community with someone, when community relies so much on communication?

The fact is, good communication and positive community building are a challenge even for two people who speak the same language--if those two people choose to focus only on the differences.

Here's where I can really learn something from my cat. Au Lait and I speak different languages. But we've both gotten to the point, I think, where we're beginning to understand each other, even if we can't speak the words. She'll meow a certain way. Then meow again. Before I would say, "Au Lait, I don't know what you want." I would say that till I was blue in the face. Truth is though, I might not know what she's saying, but I do know what she needs or wants.

Likewise, sometimes she'll choose to push her luck, and pretend she doesn't know that what she's doing hurts my feelings. But when I look into her eyes, I see a certain hesitation there. I'll just say her name and she'll pull back. It's a little game we have of sorts: you give a little, I'll give a little. In the end, the we's have it, so long as everyone involved puts in a little effort (e.g. I give some food and playtime, she sits on my feet in bed).

That's right. I'm saying communication has absolutely nothing to do with language. It's about dialog and understanding. It's about sharing a moment despite our differences. And that's where the beauty lies.

separation in love

Col left for Hong Kong yesterday. He'll be there for a week, then on to Taiwan for work. All in all, he'll be gone ten days. Not the longest he's ever been gone, but long enough for his absence to feel substantial.

In separation, I guess, the first day is always the most difficult. Yesterday morning after he left, I felt unsettled. The lump in my throat made it difficult to swallow breakfast. But then I showered. I fed Au Lait. I went to work and eventually became absorbed in the second life that is my profession.

Solitude inspires us to flex our muscles of independence. This is me, the independent woman. But then I got home and was again reminded: yep, it's just me tonight.

Over the next few days, I will fill my time with friends and reading and blogging. I'll find comfort in knowing that my Love's relatively safe, that he's experiencing a whole new place, meeting new people, and that he'll be back next week. I realize that latter comfort is a luxury these days. So I will revel in it. And I'll try not to miss him too much.