8.21.14 Growing Older and More Direct

A continuing conversation -  about growing older and more direct; 
moving away from socially. 'taking care of 'others, 
and the cool reception this sometimes meets up with.

Out with the old, and in with the new:
I think it's a developmental stage at our age . A ripening. 
And often uncomfortable for others, especially 
if we have been very good and polite and thoughtful 
and considerate and other-oriented. 

So when we make it to this age, and we begin really to
 blossom into our full self, it isn't necessarily welcomed everywhere. 

Even when we are civil and considerate. 
Being direct and straightforward, but still a loving human being, 
I think is an artform that we slowly learn. 

I think also that others around us either don't really like the change 
and stop hanging out, or adapt and celebrate us. 

I remember, before I stopped working in my practice, 
that I would change and clarify and grow, and set new boundaries. Right? 
And it would be a cleansing for my practice. So interesting. 

Most people flowed right into the changes, trusting me and
 comfortable with the clarity . 
Some people would be unhappy and leave, 
and right on their heels would be so many new people 
who were drawn to the greater clarity,
 and me being closer to my essential self. 

But I've had that experience too, of people being somewhat disdainful, 
or implying that something is wrong, because I am more direct.
 Even in a kind way. 

Just having my opinions ;viewpoints. 
And not taking care of others so much. that's a huge one. 

When others are accustomed to us inquiring and being solicitous
 and thoughtful.
As opposed to simply being ourselves, 
and enjoying them being their selves. 

I think there's a lot of ways that we grow that some struggle and fight with, 
missing the old status quo; 
while others welcome every aspect of it, as we do their  own growth . 

Regardless of reception, it is essential.and worthwhile. 

And disliking it seems like disapproving of an Oak 's new limb, 
or a Kestrel 's new skill. 

I mean, really.

8.21.14 Back into the home and heart of hearth, as we slowly walk together into fall.

We are all so similar, we human beings, on earth. Ages and developmental stages throughout our lives; challenges and the loveliness of certain experiences.

Oh, we have our assertions. Our disagreements. Our vociferous passions and ideas.

I sit out, tonight, like so many are over the earth- on porches and back yards and stoops and boardwalks and town squares. Looking at the landscape spread before me, feeling easily like Le Petit Prince.
How was it so easy to underestimate the parable of that and so many other stories, in our education?
All they seem to do is come back, now - like the refrain of a long life song, over and over, as the lessons match the similarity to one life event after another.

Next-door, there are visitors, and a meeting about the nursery opening again. Babies and infants and small small people. I bring some things by, and adults and children are having tiny cupcakes and dinner and wine, babies being held and nursed, smaller and larger ones running around in and out side, playing and laughing. Being loved and happy and young.
Shiva Louisa Latrine has been having more and more problems breathing-congestive heart issues. But the sweet old dog is 16 1/2, so it stands to reason.
I do what I can with homeopathic's for both pain and heart, supplements for inflammation and heart. Applying compresses to her blind old eyes. Working down her spine and along her arthritic arms and legs, oiling them with Gwen's Magic Oil.
Often, I wake in the night to hear her accelerated breathing. I switch on the air conditioner for her, and bundle the rest of us up, to allay her heat.
Or I sit up, awakened by her, and see Kevin's arm slung around her, softly.

Today I put her in the car, which is not comfortable, and drove to the Mount Holyoke College pond. Lifted her out, put her on a leash , which she disdains, and let her walk where she would.
And there was the Gander, of course. Crossing the road toward the pond.
One woman with a large poodle said, irritably, that he'd been gone for three days, and she's been glad. That he does not like her.
I turned to her and replied "He's the protector. He doesn't hurt anyone. It's just his job.'
She turned her face quickly away; said "Oh , you're probably right ; beautiful old bird."

As Shiva snuffled and led me here and there ,along the edges of the pond, relishing the smells, given the chance to be somewhere different than our yard, or our bed.

In the meantime, September is moving along toward us. The forest thickets are grown up, and sitting outside tonight, in the distance, the yipping of the Coywolves continues on and on: possibly a meeting- as their evening calls come closer every evening.

The yellow finches arrived in droves today, descending upon the seeds of the hyssop, which are finished blossoming, and having been set upon happily by all the winged things.
Finally today, down by the eagle sanctuary, there was one Monarch. The only one I have seen all summer for some reason. I say a small prayer for all of them, and our environment. 

And yet, last night, while Kevin and I sat on the sofa holding hands and talking, out the window was such a flurry of bats as I have ever seen, which made me glad in my heart, that they are doing well enough, despite humans and our garbage.

The dusk sky stretches above me, and far off into the distance of Leverett, a deep baby blue, with small undulations, that feels so much like a soft blanket to settle down upon everything.
For some reason, the swallows are not here now. I wonder if, as the chickadees and the morning doves and the finches move into town, the swallows and others are moving out. Everyone on their way, young ones in tow, down toward warmer climates.

The damselflies are to bed early tonight also, possibly the humidity? So that the crickets take the primary place of the orchestra, spread all the way across the conservation field and hill, leading down to the outwaters and the Connecticut River, with the co stand staccato of the distant yipping.
The father next door walks behind the cottage, carefully lifting his beautiful beloved canoe, and places it up on his car. Sneaking away, to visit the Connecticut, and I can just imagine him, life jacket on, children left behind, slipping the oars silently into one side and then the other, of his small sleek craft.watching the colors change and the cool evening air come amongst all things.
Soon? The crickets will fall fast asleep for the night. Quietly heading under the leaves and plants ,to avoid the late summer heavy dew- that will spread over the land during the night.

And the cicadas? Will awaken in all of the trees, and begin calling and calling and singing and carousing as they do.

Slowly, tomorrow, I will prepare the clay holders and go outside to wipe the house plants, and then persuade their insect inhabitants to gently leave, so that I can gradually situate them all indoors; into the relative darkness but safety of the home, away from delicious cleansing summer rains and vibrant warm winds. 

Back into the home and heart of hearth, as we slowly walk together into fall.

8.20.14 Regarding something as tragic as suicide:

Regarding something as tragic as suicide: 

Even though someone may labor for many years to remain here, 

as long as possible , despite agony unseen and unacknowledged by others, 

and then one day it is too much, and they are simply unable 

to tolerate another day, there remains their life. 

Their days. Their contributions, and the things that mattered to them. 

The efforts they made. The love they shared. 

All of that remains, regardless of their ultimate inability

 to be here one second longer. 

Sometimes people say that suicide is a selfish act. 

I tire of those people. 

Certainly it impacts the lineage of any family in unspeakable ways. 

But to determine it selfish is merely to reveal oneself

as a person who simply does not understand agony,

and has no compassion for it.

8.19.14 Poem The Point Isn't

The point isn't
to put up with all that
nor is it
to put it aside out of
pity or
grief or
feeling terrible for me

The point is to
express it to
give it your own voice to
share what it's like ; to
ask me how it is for me and
maybe that way
we can manage
to

Tolerate,
or even thrive
because we know
loving each other
in the deep mad way
we always have and
I sincerely hope

even though you won't see this
we do

8.19.14 Out In The Dusk

Out in the dusk, finally mosquitoes arrive, late for the party.

 Far below , from the outwaters, comes the call of a Coywolf. 

The woods surrounding the conservation field alive 

with the incessant song of Cicada.

8.19.14 Life is not orderly

“Life is not orderly. 

No matter how we try to make it so, 

right in the middle of it we die,

 lose a leg, fall in love, or drop a jar of applesauce.”
Natalie Goldberg

8.19.14 Small August Beings, Frolicking in The Sprinkler

Too bad you can't see the wild racing about Hummingbirds of all ages in the photo

Sitting out tonight, watching the sprinkler in the herb garden, I'm watching the hummingbirds chase away other birds! Chase away butterflies! And then frolic in the sprinklers water. 

When they get busy doing other things, the damselflies come, bunches of them, and they all sweep through the falling water too. Looks like fun. 

There are so many hummingbirds, and so few monarchs. We must take note. 

In the meantime, at this very moment, I hear that the neighborhood chickadees have arrived from far up north. An hour later, there are the Morning Doves, absent all winter, probably have been having a roaring good time off in some bird or Morning Dove camp up north someplace.  I guess they decided to arrive early. 

Or possibly they're not my neighborhood chickadees,and Morning Doves;  but ones that prefer to winter further south. Maybe they're just passing through. Who knows.

Meantime, the annuals and perennials and all the flocks of baby birds born in this land; the Kale and the tomatoes and the other vegetables-they're all coming to some grand chorale of late summer fruition. 

As intermittently,  you've noticed, the evenings are cooling. Sometimes you need to close your windows at night, or toss on an extra blanket (gasp. I hate closed windows at night. The loss of all that delicious night air.) Some mornings you  have to put on long sleeves, to go out and go about your business. I'm still clinging to my flip flops, which for me, are truly the last to go. 

And sometimes , the days are chilly. A small bite to some small breeze as it sweeps in from another town, and passes on by. Chilly wind. Ruffling Aspen leaves and sending Phlox blossoms scattering like so many tiny birds.

Sitting out,  we become woven like so many colored threads, into the tapestry of seasons. Of Earth. Of comings ,and then the goings of our lives.

8.18.14 Keep on Keeping On Watering The Garden

It's so easy to forget that gardens still need watering,

 in mid August all the way, sometimes, to October.

 In fact, many shrubs, like rhododendrons,

 will be protected from severe damage

 from extremely cold winter weather,

 simply by having good long drinks of water in late fall.

8.17.14 I want to become dust, so that when some wind blows, years from now, some small inestimable part of me will go floating up into the air, caught up in some airstream

When my parents each died, and they were not kind people, my husband knew just what to do. He understood. He took my hand , each time, and we went up the mountain.

When we had a child, grown, and in such distress, and tried so hard but knew not what else to do, we put each other's hands together, and went up the mountain.

We had a dear one in federal prison, and visited each week, during the pandemic, and I composed weekly letters complete with photographs so they would keep in touch with their former life, and when it became hard, we will take each other's hands, and go up the mountain.

Heading over across the street to an age old mountain range, and striding up the steep trails, pushing your legs as hard as you can as fast as you can, just pushing to go as far as you can, it does something. It's something powerful that moves and awakens and stands up inside of you. 

    

And now, with life calm. With unkind ones dead. And all others stable and happy, there is a young dog, large, and what he often needs, more than not, is to go up the mountain. 

As far as I can manage. In the glistening dew of early morning. In the midst of mid August evenings. 

Where small chipmunks and minute Pine Siskins silently move through the forest, beneath the pup's notice. 

Where occasionally, a bear rumbles over past a ravine, or a deer is surprised by us.

So always, there is loud talking on my part. And some hooting and hollering. Possibly some strange line in a song that I sing brashly, loud, as I wander along, watching the late summer blossoming in the Fern blanketed forest. 

Watching all of the trees listen , as if heads cocked, to the approaching fall, and then one more winter.

This land we walk upon is so aged. Made up of things inconceivable to us, from so long ago. 

And so are we. Made up of those self same things.

When my time is done, truly, I do not want to be locked in a box, all of my cells and hairs separated for so many years from the soil.

Still, the most divine process happens no matter what we do. 

I want to fall apart, as these old tree stumps in the forest do. 

I want to become fertilizer, as all the leaves now on the trees soon will be, come the cold days of fall, and the freezing wintry winds of winter.

I want to compost. I want to become part of earth and mosses and plants that small animals eat.

I want to become dust, so that when some wind blows, years from now, some small inestimable part of me will go floating up into the air, caught up in airstream, sweeping by some remarkable bird of prey. 

Maybe taken a hold by a Northeaster, pulled up until maybe some huge storm formation sweeps me far up into space. 

To join all else that is aged and timeless and contributes some small part to the formation of the birth of some enormous star.

8.16.14 So often , wisdom takes us by the hand, pulls us from the chair and leads us outside , where we are in movement , and all is alight.

Awhile back, I had an unexpected visit from a friend who lives now in Europe, a dear old friend; with whom I have shared birth and death, beginnings and endings. Great enduring challenges. Laughter and confidences always embraced. 

A few weeks later , I received a small package. In it was a plastic bag, with an ancient fragile Herbal, and Pema Chodron's small wise treatise, 'When Things Fall Apart'.
Of course, one can open to any page - and then take a few lines of thought into yourself. And sit or walk or sweep or go to bed with them, from there. 

Pema's own summary of this book is as follows. 

1. There is a great need for lovingkindness toward oneself.
2. Developing from that an awakening of a fearlessly compassionate attitude toward our own pain and that of others.
3. We can step into uncharted territories and relax in the groundlessness of the situation.
4. So, relax with whatever arises and bring whatever we encounter to the path. Over and over and over. 

Sometimes our lives slip into a scenario akin to sitting in a darkened room ,squinting to see the parameters . So often , wisdom takes us by the hand, pulls us from the chair and leads us outside , where we are in movement , and all is alight.

8.17.14 A Penchant for The Desks of Creatives

    The other day I was working on a novel, and I realized that the main protagonist’s desk was the desk of an acquaintance from 23 years ago. The mother of a friend of my youngest.

     She’d given a boisterous birthday party (weren’t they all?) and had taken a moment to show me to the upstairs bathroom.

     Her husband at the time sold all kinds of antiques and old papers and things, which spread like wild vines through the house, filling one room, then another, and was at the time slowly invading the living room, after having taken up in the dining room.

     We crept upstairs while some other parent keep an eye on the hordes, up a lovely old wooden staircase of their Victorian, to the upstairs hall, and happened to pass her study.

     I glanced as we went by, saying “Oh, is this yours ?” Because it was that time, when, if you had kids, where on earth was the room for your own self? Right?

     She smiled, and stepped into the small, high ceilinged room, and I stepped after her, to come upon the most beautifully created desk space I’d ever seen, and is still true to this day.

      I must admit I have always been taken with the spaces creative people grow for themselves. 

     So, recently, I recalled this beautiful space she had carved out for herself, and looked about and found her, connecting with her once again.

     Now with a different partner, in another state, she wrote a wonderful reply, recalling her desk, and wishing she had indeed taken a photo, but had not.

      She did kindly send me a photo of her current desk, which was fascinating, because it is so clear and spare and beautiful in a whole other way.

     I am imagining here, but it seemed as if the desk of old felt like the one place a parent or partner could find a room and a desk of one’s own. It was large and old and heavy wood, with places built into the top, that were filled so beautifully with so many small mementos and precious things. The wall above the desk had a myriad of tiny beautiful frames of all sizes with artwork and saved bits and pieces in them and photographs and all kinds of objects in between.

     When I saw it, I simply stood there with her, amazed at her creation, because it was. A creation. Of a cramped partner and mother and person, blossoming in her own desk in her own room.

      Now I recall the essence but not the particulars; and yet, this protagonist  I am listening to and writing HAS a desk like this- the reliquary of so much of their life that is meaningful or a passing loveliness or a secret sad moment.

     She did reply recently, sending me this link, thoughtfully. Of many desks of many creative people. I have seen many online collections and books of the desks of artists and literary people, none that satisfy as her’s did, by the way.

     And I did love this collection, some of which many of us are familiar with, such as Alexander Calder’s very famous piled up desk, or E.B.White sitting, writing , at this plain quiet desk.

     The Lennon/Ono photograph was a delicious surprise, as well as Virginia Woolf’s spare, meticulous space, and the positive riot of Nigella Lawson’s study.

     Picasso seemed so powerful when I was a young painter; now he makes me laugh with his silly posturing, probably my age now, in this photograph,  looking for all the world like a little kid trying to pull up his shoulders and stand on tip toes, to look big. Not that his talent was not big, but, you know.

      Chagall will always have such a place in my heart, as will Matisse,  who is not in this collection. I would feel fondly of their toilets or trashcans, for goodness sake.

     I am not fond of William Buckley, but must say I am fascinated with his chaos. Jane Austen’s is so very very circumspect; George Bernard Shaw’s for some reason very appealing. And I can just imagine Rothko sitting in that Adirondack chair (terribly uncomfortable) , just sitting and becoming steeped with his painting.

     Not many women, and only famous people. Still, I have always had a penchant for the Bower-Bird home flavor of ways that we humans create our spaces where we…create.

     I thanked her for the link; told her how I enjoyed it and what surprised me. And let her know my final answer.

      I need to simply get down to it; that’s all. And create my own desk. The way we create a precious garden. Planning does not help. All kinds of unexpected things happen in real life. Responding and watching to see what flourishes and what does not does not- does help.

     That is , paradoxically, my best bet for  seeing my protagonist’s true desk.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/summeranne/40-inspiring-workspaces-of-the-famously-creative?utm_term=15sgbe7#15sgbe7