Lots to write about, but not tonight. Tomorrow is another meeting of the Hubbard Hall Writers, so I have to be up and at 'em to make the drive to Cambridge. Will post tomorrow. In the meantime, leaving you a pic of a pug reunion. Met with my friends Joan and Jane today and our friends the Damitzes who adopted one of last year's puppies, Trump, and another friend Yvonne, who owns The Collection in Waitsfield, Vt. and three pugs, Josie, Lily and Miska. It was a pug reunion! Joan brought Trump's mother, grandmother and brother; Jane, her pugs Lorelei and Shim; Yvonne, all three of hers; and the Damitzes, their four --Trump, a.k.a. Goofy, Chunky, Truffles (my pug Waffles' sister), and Jerry. Unfortunately, my two were at home.
Framed
Today, I received a wonderful surprise. One of my readers, known here on the blog as “Grammacello,” sent me an email. She was one of the first people to buy my Limited Edition Print, “Dogs Dancing at the Carousel,” when I offered it for sale earlier this month. It seems she has framed it and hung it on her wall. She chose this cheerful red frame, which looks great with the print, bringing out the reds in the collage and casting it in a happy light. I love what she did with it. She promised more pictures to come and I hope to hear where she chose to hang it.
The print is still available in the Gallery section of this blog at the sale price of $55. I decided to leave it on sale for another month and then it goes up to $75 for a matted print.
Writing Prompt: Now it Springs Forth
Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
~Isaiah 43:19
I discovered this scripture a couple of years ago and was struck by it; drawn to the phrases “a new thing,” “springs forth,” and “do you not perceive it.” We live in a cynical, weary world, where it seems we have seen it all before. In such a world, what would a new thing be? And, springs forth? That’s such an energetic phrase. It implies something visible, tangible, happening, and yet at the same time, the phrase “do you not perceive it,” implies being blind to such an event.
I’ve thought of this scripture often since I first heard it, looking for the new things springing forth in my life that I might be overlooking. Today, the words hit home literally. The temperatures have warmed up, hinting that spring is here, but while my friends in slightly more southern climes have been talking about gardens and posting pictures of blooming flowers for days, if not weeks, already, I had yet to glimpse such signs in my own back yard.
Suddenly, I realized that I hadn’t been looking. I grabbed my camera, put on my favorite 50 mm lens and went outside in search of new things. I found life all around me. Although the ground was still mostly comprised of brown tufts of earth, torn up by winter snowplows, plants and trees were budding everywhere. I just had to get close enough to see them.
If by taking this verse literally I found so much life springing forth around me, I wondered how many other new things are occurring daily that I just don’t see. So many days seem filled with the same routine – get up, conduct interviews, write articles, correct papers, teach. I am so caught up in the weft and warp of daily life I forget to see how the threads weave together. A creative spark lies within each of us. I feel it bubbling beneath the surface. I sense something new around the corner. I now work to train my eyes to see it.
Here, is what I saw today:
Writing Prompt: What Springs Forth in Your Life?
As Time Passes
The days will pass, time will move on and we will think we remember, but we won’t. Details drift away like tufts of dandelion in the wind. I will forget this first embrace of spring; the sun’s warm breath on my face. Although pictures may remind me, I will forget the Cindy Lou Who hair and the exact shade of blue of my niece Ellie’s smocked dress. I will feel the ghost of the moment when she peaked around the leg’s of her father’s chair at the Wayside Restaurant and waved at me with the widest gleaming smile and even wider brown eyes. I will remember what a beautiful baby she was, but these tiny moments when I sat cross-legged with her on the restaurant’s floor and pretended to drive to the circus will fade. While I may remember that Waffles’ once learned to escape the fence, I will forget the crystal clear trill of the bird in the tree as I walked the perimeter to see where my father had blocked Waffles’ egress. As age claims them, I will forget how easily Waffles and Alfie once moved, their respective haughty and lulling gaits, eventually giving way to stiffer and more jaunty walks.
As the days pass and time moves on, I will forget how shiny, bright and young we each were – my parents healthy and proud of their granddaughter, my brother’s family still so nascent and blossoming, me, filled with hope and expectation for the life that’s around the corner. We take with us the quick sketch, the outline, allowing the Kodachrome colors to fade. We forget unless we take the time to remember. But now, because I captured it here, perhaps I will preserve some of this sunshine to warm my heart. I will toddle into time’s stream like my niece on her newfound legs and leave these tiny breadcrumbs of memories to trace back to this day.
A Quiet Day
A hush fell over the house today. I found myself alone with the pugs and my work. It was a day of rest and recovery in many ways even though I spent the afternoon transcribing tapes of notes for an article I’m writing for Vermont Property Owners Report and conducting phone interview. I also managed to correct some students’ papers for a workshop next week, but overall the house was quiet; the tapping of my computer keys punctuated by the steady snores of the pugs. We even managed to work in a nap – Alfie’s furry fawn body tucked in the curve of my legs, Waffles teeny black form perched on my hip. I smile at this. It is Waffles’ signature stance. She is the first pug I have owned that I did not get as a puppy and thus, she brings to my life fully formed habits. Yet, because I was there since her birth, visiting her breeder Joan’s house so often, I am familiar with so many of them. She has slept on my hip since birth – every time I visited her house and climbed up on Joan’s bed to play with her. Waffles, her mother Releve and grandmother TarBaby held court on Joan’s bed – three black diva’s reigning over their kingdom. Now, Alfie and Waffles stand guard like two sentinels on my bed, watching over me as I sleep.
It is not a day of big moments, but little ones. We snacked on a bagel and cream cheese, the pugs licking the remnants off my fingers. I watched from the back door as they silently wandered the back yard. I played with my graphite and watercolor pencils sketching a drawing of my niece who had donned a Dr. Seuss wig the night before It is not the type of day of which epic stories are told, but it was the type of day from which a life is made – a small, but precious bead on a chain of memories.
New Articles
Ever wonder what I do for my day job? Check out some of the new articles I have added under My Writing page here on the blog. I am fortunate to work for a number of wonderful publications in Vermont and New Hampshire not the least of which is Upper Valley Life and its related publication, Upper Valley Life Home Improvement Guide as well as the Art & Gallery Guide. Having such a wealth of excellent publications to work for in this region allows me to make a living as a writer and to meet some of the most interesting people and share their stories. Please take some time to peruse these pieces and if you live in the area and happen to see these publications pick them up and check them out, there's a lot of other great writing and writers inside. And, if you live outside the area and are interested in learning more about us, this is a great place to start. I believe subscriptions are available, just visit the links to find out!
My Cavalry
My spacious Woodstock hotel room with king-sized bed suddenly shrunk to the size of a small forsaken island as I sat writhing in pain. My abdominal cramps started in the morning and only got worse as the day progressed. I knew I could ask at the front desk or call someone from the writers’ festival and find out where the nearest hospital was and realized I’d have to do so soon if the pain didn’t subside, but although I felt worse than awful, I convinced myself that it wasn’t such an emergency that I had to seek outside help. My family wasn’t so easily convinced. I called home to tell them I wasn’t feeling well and my mother said she was sending someone from the front desk to my room. I made her swear that she wouldn’t and tried to wait it out on my own.
Finally, I succumbed and called her back. “I don’t think it’s an emergency exactly, but I need to come home.”
The three-and-a-half hours between home and my hotel seemed infinite as I waited, but at 10:00 p.m., thirteen hours after my ordeal had started, the cavalry arrived: my 65-year-old mother, who cannot see to drive at night and my faithful brother Mark, number two of my three younger siblings. By the time they pulled up, I was doing better. My pain had somewhat subsided and I had managed to get some liquids in me which seemed to revitalize me a bit, although did little to cure the situation. They packed me up, loaded me in my car and then began the endless journey home. I say endless because my cavalry, while full of heart, lacked something in navigational ability. We probably all should have stayed at the hotel and started fresh in the morning, but my Mom, like me, felt more comfortable dealing with the hospital at home, so we set off into the night in the totally wrong direction!
If I hadn’t been so ill, I probably would have realized sooner that we had gotten on the wrong access ramp, headed south toward New York City instead of north toward Vermont. I also should note that I was distracted by my Mom’s driving. Because she has such poor night vision she had to ride the tail of my brother, watching his taillights like a beacon in the darkness. We were at least a half hour out of our way before I noticed that the names of the cities were wrong and called my brother to inform him we needed to turn around. One hour added to the trip.
Mom and I laughed. Why are we following Mark? We asked. He’s the one who got lost in the hood. We were referring to a time many years ago when my brother was working in New Jersey. He was sent out on an errand, but missed his turn and ended up in the bad part of town. It became a family joke, one that was reiterated several times on this long night. I tried to rest, but we had to make frequent stops for me along the way adding 15 minutes here and there to our travel time. Then we missed another turn, ending up on 1-90. It wasn’t until I spotted the sign to Schenectady that we realized we were lost again and had to turn around. Hour two added to the trip.
Mark’s cellphone didn’t seem to care where it directed him as long as it eventually got him there, so we followed its lead down a series of twisted back roads through Schenectady until we finally ended up in Clifton Park, driving more back roads before finally reconnected with I-87. From here we were okay until it came time to take the exit to Rutland.
“Don’t take the first exit,” I warned my brother who informed me that his phone said otherwise. My brother’s one of those people that if directions on a tube of toothpaste say wash-rinse-and-repeat he does just that. No simple wash-and-rinse for him, he’s by the book. So we followed the book or the phone in this case, and once again ended up off the beaten path. When we finally connected with the right route we were so tired we pulled over at a closed McDonald’s restaurant where a cop stopped to make sure we were okay. When he discovered we were, he went on, but not before my Mom put the car in the wrong gear -- drive instead of reverse -- almost taking us over the bank.
Oh, I almost forgot. Somewhere around Schenectady a series of warning lights came on in my brother’s car. Turns out we weren’t driving with all cylinders and probably shouldn’t have been driving at all. The next morning we called AAA and had them tow the car to the repair shop.
At 5:00 a.m. we saw the lights of home, at least doubling our initial e.t.a. A lot of people joke about my reliance on my G.P.S. and apparent lack of direction, but obviously I come by this honestly, no doubt an inherited trait.
In spite of my exhaustion and what had now become a dull pain, I looked at my weary rescuers, my beautiful mother and kindhearted brother and thought two things: one, how rich I was in family, how lucky to be so loved and two, next time, I think I’ll call the ambulance!
Turn of Events
Unfortunately, my getaway to the Woodstock Writers' Festival took a sad turn on Saturday when I became violently ill. When I wasn't better six hours later, I succumbed to calling home. I'll write more about that later, but suffice it to say I am home now, rescued by my family who drove the 3.5 hour trip to pick me up and escort me and my car home. I'm still not feeling well, but am much better. As we pulled away from my hotel I saw this loyal pup waiting in the car for its owner. Even though I felt both ill and horrible for missing the majority of the weekend festivities, I had to smile. This little white dog was a good omen I felt, a gentle nod in what had been a trying day.
Snores and Stories
A misty rain showers us with kisses as we file into the home of memoir writer and teacher Abigail Thomas. We are like disciples seeking a guru. Eleven of us, all women, curl up in sofas and chairs, acting casual and confident as we prepare to share our stories. We are all shapes and sizes, most roughly middle age. Abigail sneaks a smoke on the porch as her dogs volley for a space amidst all the visitors. The chocolate dog, Daphne curls up near her mistress’ feet, chewing the throw rug. Abby grabs a tangerine from a bowl on the counter and tosses it to her as we round the circle of introductions. The hound, Carolina, approaches her sister, sniffing the tangerine. She considers claiming it. Abby grabs a second, pitching it her way to ward off a fight. What do these animals think, so quiet and relaxed at the feet of strangers?
I did an interview on Reiki for animals once. The woman explained it was all about energy. She calmed dogs and cats at the local humane society by sitting in the room and being quiet, exuding the right kind of energy. The restless cats would settle into plush beds and window seats. Are these dogs calm because we are?
I don’t feel calm sharing my story. Most likely few of us do. Each person offers a nervous disclaimer as it comes her turn to read – I did this quickly, I’m not good with prompts, I prefer to revise, I’m tired. The excuses vary slightly, but the message is the same: I’m afraid I’ll be judged. This is more important than I show. Be gentle.
No matter how many times I ask my students to do this, no matter how often I myself write and set out to share, it becomes no easier. I hate wearing the title writer/teacher when it comes my turn. Who wants to say you write for a living, that you teach memoir when you offer yourself raw and naked for judgment?
When my turn comes I read. My face grows hot. I press on. What’s the expression? The only way out is through?
The chocolate dog makes her way to my seat on the sofa. Solid and sure, she nudges me to the edge, claiming her space. My legs cramp with little room to move, but I enjoy the familiarity of her dogginess. I am at home amidst the quiet snorts and dog hair. Carolina approaches her Mom, stretching her neck to rest her head in Abby’s lap. Abby raises her journal to her eyes and tries not to see – “It will get her going,” she explains.
We talk about sex and suicide, longing and love – the gamut of human existence. We compare our stories to one another's like boys in a locker room, but encourage and support nonetheless. The dogs snore beneath our words, a comforting soundtrack. They do not worry what anyone thinks of them. They are dogs and if they are nervous about anything it is whether we will share the tuna and chicken wraps that we’ll be served at lunch.
We read and gradually relax, growing more comfortable with each other. The room exudes the right kind of energy. We settle into our stories like dogs to a comfy couch.
Alone
It might sound strange coming from a 45-year-old single woman, but finding myself alone is almost foreign to me. The only time I have lived alone was my sophomore year of college and even then my best friend lived next door with only a thin wall between us. We could hear each other’s phone conversations and practically talk without picking up the phone. The rest of the time I’ve had either roommates or family sharing my space.
My present house, located in the center of town, has always been a stopping place for family and friends. Its revolving door policy means that typically you can find someone coming or going day and night. Sometimes I’ll be sitting up working at 3:00 a.m. only to find my brother, Paul, has stopped by to grab a snack on his way home from night patrol. In the morning, before I even wake, family may have stopped and used the computer or the bathroom, and I will come downstairs to find traces of their presence. It’s sort of a Goldilocks moment – whose been sitting in my chair, etc. etc.?
Even when I travel it’s usually with someone or at least with the intention of meeting someone. For example, I travel back and forth to Cambridge, NY for my writers’ group, but the other members are always there waiting. When I make the hour-long journey between my house and Joan’s, I know there is someone on both ends to see me off and greet me. Even if my house has gone to bed for the night, my pugs wait patiently for their evening romp and snacks.
On my annual trek to the Woodstock Writers’ Festival, it’s true I meet up with other writers, but I know none of them. Although my name is on a checklist of having purchased a festival pass, no one will really pay any mind if I show up or not. There is a freedom in this. I am afloat and without boundaries, unsure how to take best advantage of this. I could go eat pizza or check in at the hotel. I could grab some soup or head to the story slam. There is no one else to consider. There’s just me. It’s a funny feeling. I have to stop and think – what do I want?
Some of my married friends with children look at my life longingly, imagining secret freedoms and independence. It is not a life I’ve known. Seldom has my life been untethered. And, true, it is not really this independence and freedom I crave. Although I always seem to have people around me, I am frequently lonely, craving a family of my own. And, yet, at moments like this, when I find myself truly alone, I can’t help but observe with scientific objectivity that it is an interesting experience. The feeling is alien, but potentially exhilarating as if every action holds the promise of adventure. I wait to see what may happen next.