It's the little things...

Sometimes it’s the little things that count. The other day I asked my friend Sheila to go see a movie with me. I gave her two options – Silver Linings Playbook and The Impossible. I sent my invite via Facebook and somehow in reading it we had a communication gap and she thought I was inviting her out for Saturday when in reality I was inviting her for Friday. As a result, she told me to give her a call and we’d talk on Saturday and I thinking she was unavailable for Friday went out to see Silver Linings Playbook by myself.

When we finally talked and figured out the confusion, I suggested we could still see a movie. I could tell that she preferred Silver Linings Playbook over The Impossible, so I offered to see it again and I was happy to do so.

When we arrived at the theater, I saw that Les Miserables was playing, a movie I had wanted to see since Christmas Day. I said, “Oh, Les Mis is here, I’d love to see it.” We talked a bit about what we each had heard about the movie and even spoke to some people we knew coming out of the theater about it. Then Sheila surprised me. She turned and asked, “Would you rather see Les Miserables?”

It might sound funny for me to be shocked by such a simple question, but to be honest I am used to usually attending films with friends and family members with very definite views on what they will and will not see and frequently find myself accommodating them to keep the peace. My father will not sci-fi, art house films, or anything historic such as medieval movies where people wear thick clothes, as he sees it (Don’t ask). My friend Joan foregoes horror, action films, and animal movies with sad endings. My friend Chris has even more specific taste -- usually going against the mainstream. Most of my friends will not go see a film if I have already seen it, not to be kind, but rather in protest that I went without them, so I often find myself pretending that I haven’t gone. Since I’m usually willing to see just about anything and over and over again, it’s not that big a deal. Or so I tell myself, but I was taken aback when Sheila tossed this question out there as an honest choice. The thing that really got me was the sincerity behind it. She was perfectly happy to have us see Les Miserables instead of her preference and I realized that since I had genuinely enjoyed Silver Linings Playbook the night before and thought Sheila would really like it as well, I was truly happy to see that again if she wanted. Turns out she really did and we enjoyed sharing the experience together. Still, her kind gesture and the genuine choice it provided me touched my heart and opened me up to a new possibility – sometimes I can choose. It was a small thing on her part, but it left a big impact on me.

Walk

 

Sometimes when it looks like you are wandering,

lost or walking in circles

You are blazing an unique

and beautiful path.

No two roads are the same, no other footprints

leave your impression.

No one can understand the halting, the circling,

the standing still. They can’t see the trail

you leave until it’s done.

They need perspective,

You need to keep moving on.

Not Playing it Small

I started a new semester of teaching tonight – three students. I found myself sharing with them my writing from the blog and telling them about Barbara Techel’s book, Through Frankie's Eyes, which I have just reviewed. One student wondered what he had to share and I told him how I had just read Barbara’s book about how her experience taking care of her dog helped her grow in confidence and find an authentic life. The pieces seemed to just come together. In the past I would have been reluctant to read my own work to my students, but tonight after I had them write about a first impression, I read my piece Tears on meeting a perspective owner for one of my friend Joan’s puppy. I shared my own insecurities when it comes to writing, letting myself be vulnerable and they seemed to respond. I’m learning and growing, like we all are, and in being open and honest, we foster each other.

One of my favorite quotations is by Marianne Williamson: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

I have long cherished these words and shared them with others, but each day I am learning to live them. As I shared the other day, we have been talking a lot at the Hubbard Hall Writers’ Group about what it means to live an authentic life both as people and as  writers and have concluded, that in large part, it means a willingness to be open and vulnerable. That’s a big move for me. You spend a lifetime trying to build a façade only to learn that it can be a dungeon, locking you inside. On one hand, I have always been open and honest and direct about my feelings, but another part of me I’ve always kept safely locked inside. Now I’m taking the above words to heart, playing small does not serve the world.

That’s something my little black pug Waffles already seems to know. Here, she shines large, a queen in her snowy tiara. She is a tiny powerhouse, shrinking from nothing. Never playing it small.

A Creative Life

Today was to be the day. After attending a meeting of The Hubbard Hall Writers’ Group on Sunday and receiving a fair dose of inspiration as well as a project and a deadline for it, I had planned a long afternoon of writing. Well, first I was going to have some me time -- a long anticipated conversation with a friend to get some healthy eating tips, a little bit of camera time with the pugs for an upcoming photography assignment, and an hour of reading for a review I’m writing for the blog. All this first, followed by several unadulterated hours of writing. Or so I thought.

It’s a wonderful age in which we live. I know it is easy to find fault with being plugged-in and connected all the time, but the Internet brings myriad opportunities – access to information, ways to connect with like-minded people, the world at our fingertips. Its all pretty nifty until it isn’t. Today it wasn’t.

I decided to check my e-mail before beginning my glorious day creativity and found out that while I could receive incoming email I couldn’t send anything. I picked up my office phone to check my messages and discovered it was dead. I then reached for the home phone, on a completely different system and that also was dead. My father to the rescue. I quickly picked up my cell and gave him a call and within an hour he was on the phone with Comcast trying to clear up the office phone (Vonage) and Internet problems. First, however, he cut a new cable for the home phone and fixed that. Seemed not only was it an unrelated system, it was an unrelated problem. Just one of those strange coincidences when everything would go wrong all at once.

The call to Comcast began at 1:00 p.m. and involved a series of calls back and forth as the phone got disconnected and we were passed up a chain of command. All the phone representatives were very well trained in the niceties of customer service, apologizing for our frustration and being passed around so many times that you wanted to MUTE them, but none were well trained in the actual service part. We were told that this must not be a Comcast problem but a Thunderbird problem even though one of the computers in the house was using Thunderbird and one Outlook and all had to go through Comcast for Broadband. By 4:00 p.m., three hours later and one deleted Comcast account from my computer (which took all my stored folders and email) and one monthly $14.95 charge for an upgrade to Comcast Signature Service, and we finally reached a technician who could walk us through the problem. Seemed Comcast had made a change to their outgoing port and had sent an email several months ago alerting us to the change. I have no knowledge of ever seeing said email, but in any case with a few clicks, another hour later, all the computers were sending mail again. Funny, how no one could tell us about the port problem 5 hours earlier when we made the first call.

Feeling wiped out and frustrated from the day’s events, Dad and I decided to go out to dinner at the local pizza hangout – Bethel’s Cockadoodle Pizza Café, run by one of our local vet techs and her husband. I love the atmosphere, the roosters and chickens that make up the décor and the strange juxtaposition of this unique mascot with the Italian pizzeria motif. Add to this that the restaurant is held in a historic building that houses an old fashioned soda fountain and you’ve got a special charm found no place else. After heaping helpings of spaghetti and Greek salad our moods improved and we realized the day wasn’t a total loss. My Dad and I actually worked together to solve a problem and the pugs were happy to have me confined to the kitchen all day. I didn’t get any writing done, but somehow I felt a sense of achievement – we had waged a war and we had won!

We all have visions of the Creative Life as an enriching, fulfilling experience and it can be. As my friend and mentor Jon Katz says it can also be work. Mostly, like life in general it is a balancing act with many balls in the air all at once. I need the Internet, I-pad, computer and phone to do my job. I also need quiet space and creative time in which to work. Today I planned on the second, but had to deal with the first. The reward, I think, comes in taking victories when you can find them and using the trials for inspiration. At least now all my gear is ready for me to get to work tomorrow.

A Facebook friend who has been sick with the horrible bug that’s going around said, you never appreciate your health until you lose it. The same might be said for a good Internet connection. Having been sick myself since Christmas I’ll be happy when both are restored, but in the meantime I’m not waiting for a Creative Life to happen. I’m seizing the reins and working with where I find myself at the moment. That’s the true meaning of vocation isn’t it? Working with where we’re at, with what we have? To this day then, I was called.

Writing Prompt: Meaning

The Hubbard Hall Writers Group met today, and although many of us were ill it was an inspiring time. We are a diverse group in age, occupation, marital status, but as we sat there listening to our leader, writer Jon Katz, speak it was evident how much we had in common. He addressed the obvious -- a love of writing, art, a desire to express ourselves and then touched on something deeper. He spoke in essence of something he writes about often -- the search for a meaningful life. No matter where we presently find ourselves -- a middle-aged man in mid-life awakening, a busy mother, a young woman in search of a career, a single middle-aged woman in search of a life, we are all looking to establish a meaningful existence and to define what that means. Sometimes we think the grass looks greener from the other side.  Sometimes we imagine what this meaningful life looks like, sometimes we write about it and Jon says in doing so sometimes we get there.

I am trying to get there. I know for me a meaningful life is one of integrity, generosity, loyalty and love. Our life takes shape around us and sometimes it doesn't look at all like we expect. The trick lies in finding meaning in the pieces we are given; to shape from the unexpected and the mundane, a life of which we can be proud.  To me this means learning to be my own measuring stick, to be comfortable with contradiction, to have faith that it is possible.

And, for now, in this moment, it means curling up on the sofa -- drenched in  the warm, pink glow of my still-standing Christmas tree -- writing, sharing, and listening to two dogs snore. It means knowing that for tonight at least this is enough.

Writing Prompt: How do you define a meaningful life? What aspects must be present for you to find meaning?

Poltergeist

It is not unusual for me to go to bed after 2:00 a.m. and last night was no exception. In fact, for the last few weeks, I’ve been plagued with insomnia no doubt brought on by the Prednisone I’ve been taking. Prednisone, I’ve learned is often called “the Devil’s drug” and it definitely seems to have an evil effect on my body even as it goes to work healing my sinuses and ears. Still, I admit when I’m on it my brain is not exactly clear.

Last night, however, it’s primary effect seemed to be hyping me up enough to undertake a variety of suddenly important activities such as organizing and alphabetizing my DVD collection at 2:00 a.m. The pugs are used to me being up and about at night, like I said, but usually I’m working on the computer, reading a book, writing an article, watching TV, not running like a mad woman around my bedroom ripping DVDs off the shelf and stacking them over the bed and the floor. They weren’t sure where to light as my lap was unavailable and the bed was full. Thus, they too were running around, chasing each other, doing circles, uncovering their toys.

And, eventually when all else failed Alfie went on her insane and never-ending hunt for the invisible fly. This urge to hunt often takes over late at night and at times when she should be quiet. It involves staring at the ceiling, jumping up and down off the bed reaching toward the ceiling and barking maniacally at thin air, most often at times when she should be the quietest.

I hushed her and scolded her to calm down to no avail. I tried to get a toy to distract her. No luck. I was worried she’d wake the other members of the household, so I shut my bedroom door and that’s when things got creepy.

I’m not one to become easily spooked. I’m a night owl and thus, don’t mind the dark and am accustomed to the creaks and groans of an old house. My sister-in-law keeps a dream diary of paranormal experience, but I’m not one to dwell on those sorts of things. Nor do I worry much about crime. But suddenly I found myself getting a little unnerved.

It started with some movement behind my window shade. Wow, Alfie’s actually caught a live one here, I thought to myself, assuming the slight movement from behind the shade was a sleepy old housefly. After all, Alfie was staring at the window with all the perseverance and authority of a German shepherd or Doberman pinscher. Congrats, Alfie, I was about to say when the shade moved some more and not just a little bit. That was not a fly behind the shade. It was too big. A squirrel, I thought? Or a mouse? But the movement was coming from the middle of the shade and there seemed to be no perch for either of these. If it hadn’t been the middle of winter I would have assumed the window was open the way the shade moved in and out, but I didn’t think I felt a breeze.

Alfie was frantic by this point and that’s when things got really strange. My shades, which are always difficult to move up and down, actually had been torn the last time I had moved them and suddenly, like a scene in a horror movie the tear started to spread. Now the shade was moving in and out and tearing from the top. I pictured long claws skimming the surface behind it and considered darting off for help before shaking my head and telling myself this was no poltergeist. If anything it was probably a prednisone- induced hallucination I thought. My bedroom is on the second floor and there was no way anyone was getting in and while the logical thing might be to look behind the shade I had no desire to do that. What if it were a rat, after all?

I did have a desire though, to do what we are all trained to do since childhood when we encounter something scary – I wanted to dart beneath the covers and not come out until morning. And, that’s exactly what I did, sweeping the DVDs off the bed and ushering Waffles and Alfie to their crates.

Alfie, I have to admit, should be rewarded for her gallantry. She was hard to move, standing between me and the offending shade with her fur bristling. You have to remember she is used to this game, standing guard many a night against her invisible fly. Eventually she tires. Since, by this point I was acting very unperturbed, she eventually seized the chewy meatball I offered her and curled up to munch away, uttering only a bark and a growl here and there as we both sat listening to the tiny tears in the shade.

Like I said, I’m not one to easily spook and once I had set my mind on the practical approach of hiding beneath the covers, things did seem to go more smoothly. I readily admit I considered getting up at one point and reaching for my faithful old stuffed teddy bear, Sam, who I still keep in my room, but as any good child knows the only way the blanket defense works is if you stay safely tucked under them and that’s just what I did until morning. After awhile I convinced myself there must be a draft that had gone to work on the shade and when I awoke in the morning I discovered that’s exactly what had happened. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I had left my window cracked a tiny bit up top and although I didn’t notice the chill, it had done the job, leaving tiny tears like the nails of a poltergeist.

I suppose I should feel foolish and I suppose some of you might wonder how I could have fallen so soundly to sleep, but like my pug, Alfie, I have to admit it may just be easier to fight against an invisible enemy than the real thing. I have promised not to be so harsh with her nightly hunts and, I have to admit a slight sense of pride in myself. We always wonder how we’ll handle ourselves in an emergency and I think I did quite well. You know all those movies when you question the actions of the protagonist as they leave the safety of their bedroom and go exploring in the dark? Not me, I held my ground! The pugs and I tucked in safe and sound and survived the demons in the night.

12 Pieces of Wood

I called my friend Joan last night. She was still coughing, but she brushes it aside like a tedious fly buzzing around a picnic table. I ask her what she’s doing and she tells me again about the 12 pieces of wood.

The 12 pieces of wood are those she is moving each day, diligently digging and detaching them from the frozen earth and bringing them inside or closer to the house for the fire. The men who delivered the wood dropped it in the wrong place, a large heaping pile soon covered by the endless snow that blankets her driveway. In all the years I’ve known her it never seems like the men place the wood in the right place and part of my mind always picks away at this fact like a tiny scab in my thoughts. I’ve even mentioned it on occasion, but my words disappear into the ether as Joan babbles on in another direction. I suggest she hire some students to help her – a young man happy to lift some logs for some pocket change. It seems like these helpful lads were always in the past and she doesn’t bother to look. Instead, each day she goes out and unburies the 12 logs. Anymore than 12 and it causes her back to ache, her side to hurt. It is slow, deliberate work. She has set a goal of 12

I puzzle over the 12 Pieces of Wood, meditate on them like a Zen koan. – what is the sound of one hand clapping, what is the meaning of 12 pieces of wood? In the question lies both insanity and enlightenment. I turn it over and over like a multi-faceted diamond. Each time I think of the wood, I come across something new.

It is easy to judge Joan for the chaos twirling around her. It is easy to admire her for her strength. It is easy for those 12 pieces of wood to become my own.

That’s it isn’t it? We all have our 12 pieces of wood, problems and conundrums that others don’t understand. From the outside it is easy to assess and judge to offer help, answers, advice. To find inspiration or comfort or disappointment or bemusement in the wood/cross another bears.

Today, I read an article about Michael J. Fox and his morning routine living with Parkinson’s. It was in Reader’s Digest in a section devoted to Optimism and the article was optimistic. Fox spoke about the trials of getting dressed, but noted that once the morning routine was all done, he left the room with a self-satisfied smile because “It Just Gets Better From Here.”

And, it is optimistic that Fox can look at life that way. It is inspiring. But, I’m sure he doesn’t look at it that way everyday. On some days I’m sure he’d like to give up the ghost and on other days he digs out the 12 pieces of wood, the consummate survivor.

I have lived with chronic illness most of my life, nothing serious like  Parkinson’s. Just illness that returns and returns and leaves me sick for weeks on end. And, I have friends who would say its wrong to say that, that I lack faith. And, others who just don’t understand, mountains out of molehills they think. And, others who assume I must be better by now and others who’ve been through it all with me and admire my carrying on.

And, that’s not even my 12 pieces of wood on most days. I have other things I dig and lift and carry more. And that’s just it isn’t it? We all do. Only sometimes we can’t see our own 12 pieces not from the inside. Sometimes, it’s too hard to understand what seems so clear to others and sometimes they just can’t understand from out there. Each of us has our own digging, our own carrying to do. And, so we puzzle over these problems or we don’t. We go through our routines and plant a smile on our face and hope it just gets better from here.

We learn from each other, we frustrate each other, we inspire each other, but in the end only we can determine how we will address those 12 pieces of wood. They are our anchor and our liberation – a Zen koan to which I will return.

Writing Prompt: Where I Make My Home

You can learn a lot about a person from their home. Their photos, style of furnishings, lamps, sofa, chairs, all shed light on what an individual likes and values. The problem is I lack a home of my own. The picture above is of my family’s home. It is where I currently sleep and sometimes eat, when I’m not out on the road. My belongings – pottery, dishware, extensive art collection, etc. are boxed and buried in a small alcove on the top floor. They indicate I’m a nesting nomad or nomadic nester, a person with the desire to lay down roots, but instead keeps busy wandering the roads. I spend most days traveling to interviews or writing in the Books-A-Million coffee shop. I teach at students' homes, the local community college, a writers’ center. I drive to a writing workshop in Cambridge, NY and am fine with making the 2. 5 hour trip to visit friends there. I spend lots of time at the movie theater, visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Waterbury Center, Vt., and at my friend Joan’s in Warren. We travel to visit pug friends, see plays, visit her daughter, participate in dog shows. I load my pugs in their doggie car seats and hit the road to dog parks and pet stores. I journey to Hana, Hawaii, Laguna Beach, Chicago. Disney World. I seldom sit still.

For the last few years I have made plans to build a house on the 10-acres of land I own, but all have failed, primarily because I am a starving artist and even if I were to eschew the creative life for the 9 to 5 grind, I have often been too sick over the course of my life to hold a regular job.  So for the time being, the best way to assess my values and judge my belongings is to take a look at the trunk of my car.

In the back, you’ll find a sleeping bag and pillows – two circular smilies, one yellow, one purple, two wool blankets, a host of dogs supplies, CDs, audio books, an array of cleaning products from microfiber cloths to Windex, Armor all and ice de-icer. I have a coupon holder and a sparkling Jesus piggy bank. He is bedecked in silver glitter that often comes loose in the trunk of a car, casting a shimmery glow on everything put back there. He is filled with dimes and pennies, nickels and quarters.

My interior décor consist of two front car-seat covers, clad with colorful peace symbols. A miniature stuff pug a la Man in Black hangs from the mirror alongside a flowered lei air freshener. The backseat currently has one of the wool blankets on it to hide the dog hair and while the doggie car-seats are momentarily in the garage they often take up the back, complete with pugs upon them. The rear of the car sports a host of bumper stickers – one from Dog Mountain in St. Johnsbury, Vt. Another proclaiming “I work hard so my pugs don’t have to,” and a bright yellow and red one declaring “Thank God for Hana.”  I often lose the magnetic ones when I drive through a carwash and forget to take them off, so I frequently have to replenish.

It is not unusual to find a dufflel bag of clothing in the trunk, complete with dog clothes I can don when I’m at Joan’s and heavy boots and coat to temper the frigid weather there. A brown, leather satchel with digital recorder, tape cassettes, writing assignments and interview notes, sits on the passenger seat floor next to the black-and-white Holstein patterned trash bag. My navy blue Swiss Army computer bag containing my Mac and I-pad typically rides along and on the days I teach a wheeled case of books and student papers.

My CD player holds the latest Brandi Carlisle CD, which I alternate with a mix of worship songs we sing when I am in Hana. My car doors hold other choices including Aerosmith, Avett Brothers, and U2. My radio is pre-programmed to VPR and The Point.

I don’t consider my car my home, but it is where I spend the most time. I find my home with my friends and family – my year-old niece jubilantly exclaiming “Ball” and “Dog,” with the students I teach so eager to discuss their work, with my friend Joan and all her pugs, over tea with my friend Kathleen, at the newest independent movie with my friend Sheila. I long for a place to unpack my stuff, hang up my art, showoff the pottery. I crave a physical place to call home, but what I hope my car and its belongings say about me is that I’m doing fine just the same. I may not have my own place, but I have an active life and home is with those I love.

Postscript:

That is not to say I’m not keeping my options open. I’ve been eyeing some communities in which to live, still consider house plans, and look at ways to expand the bankroll. And, my friends and family are always willing to help out. I was sharing with my mother a photoblog I stumbled upon the other night called www.rowdykittens.com. The author/photographer makes her home in a tiny Tumbleweed house on wheels. I have written articles about tiny houses and my Mom is always on the lookout for the perfect one for me. Even my students and friends have sent suggestions and posted links to possibilities. Today, Mom forwarded me another. Here, is the link to her latest idea. I am not turning my nose up at anything that has the words “My Home” attached to it, but honestly, this one presently leaves me speechless.

Writing Prompt: What do you call home?

Liberated Woman

The snow pelts us like a fighter’s punch – cold, hard, relentless – it stings our face and eyes as we shuffle down the frosty sidewalk. My uncle guides my 92-year-old grandmother by the arm, plowing a safe path for her to keep her from falling. I mirror him, holding my mother upright. We take small baby steps, both of us unsure of our footing; I worry about her bad knees.

I am 45; this is the day and age of the liberated woman. Still, I wish there was someone to hold my arm. I worry should I fall who will be there to hold me up?  I swallow, feeling the tightness in my throat; I have a cold coming on, probably more. It’s the third New Year’s in a row, I’ve been sick. It’s hard not to feel vulnerable at times like this. Winter in New England can be brutal, frigid, and as the temps fall below zero, it is easy for warm flesh to feel defenseless against this bone-chilling dervish.

When we get inside and warm up I call my friend Joan to check on her. She often loses power in weather like this. She answers with a hacking cough that has lingered for the last few months. She has been outside clearing wood out of the snow.  It is a tedious, painful process to watch and I imagine it now as she complains to me about the cold. A former concert pianist, Joan’s hands no longer hold their former strength. She doesn’t share her age, but I know she is older than my parents. She dons fleece and flannel and with the help of her friend Jane the two wrap gloved hands over the logs, yanking and digging to remove them from the ice. Then one at a time they bring them indoors, enough to start a fire for the night.

Living near Sugarbush ski area in a house above the snow line, Joan is a native of winter, an intimate acquaintance of life’s bitter sting. She lost the love of her life, her third husband Charlie, 15 years ago, but she speaks of him with the warmth and blush of a new bride. She lives with his memory and her cluster of pugs, creating a makeshift family for herself with these creatures and the people they bring through her doors. My pugs are my family, and I mirror her, embracing her circle also.

She has a tough outer crust and I look at her with admiration. She has no one to hold her arm when the cold throws its punch. She pulls her own weight.  She sees the night through by mopping floors and feeding pugs and sometimes mutters, “S.O.S. (same ole shit) in exasperation, but inside the hardened shell her blue eyes sparkle and those world-weary hands make music. She wears the face of the liberated woman and hides the heart of a gleeful child. Sometimes I look at her life, shake my head at the hardship and chaos that owning so many dogs can cause, and think she is crazy – come in from the cold, surrender, I’d like to say. Sometimes I look at her as a hero; she is not down for the count.

I go to her house, raise my face to the cold and heave wood – two, three, four logs at a time from the frozen earth. I open my heart to winter and feel ice flow through my veins. I put my foot to the gas and blaze up her slick mountain road, conquering fear. I vacation in her life and feel stronger for it. I know winter, too, and loneliness. The wind blows bitter here, but the sky shines clear and sparkles with razor-sharp stars. Nature broadcasts in high-definition from this mountain. The snow whips and stings here as well, but like a pioneer staking a claim, I feel valiant for having conquered it.

The cold’s a metaphor for life’s hard fist and when it strikes we all look for an arm to lean on, a hand to guide us through. I hang up the phone with Joan, melt into my comfy sofa and embrace the snoring pug she gave me. As a child I used to love to tromp through the snow. Cloistered in my puffy snowsuit I would slide and roll, making snow angels on the ground.

I see Joan do the same. Her angel wings brush each pug.

It is not fashionable to admit to loneliness; we just carry on. But, sometimes, I worry what I will do when my hands aren’t as strong, my knees not as certain. So, I look to my friend who still lifts logs, cares for more pets than most and wields both mop and ice scraper. I look to her and see myself in the dead of winter, amidst ice and snow, racing up that driveway to keep her company for a spell. I see Jane helping her light a fire. Joan has formed her circle, made her pack. I make mine.

It may not be the hand we imagine, but I see we are seldom alone in the storm – not as long as we’re living, not as long as we’re reaching out. I march steadily through life’s tundra, finding liberation in that.

icecle

Vader's Tree

I admit it, I've been pretty wiped out lately. I love Christmas, but with Christmas cards, parties, deadlines, scrapbooks, etc. etc. I seem to find myself sick by season's end. It has been hard to keep up with the blog. Almost all the writers I know define themselves as writers by saying they have to write. Problem is that's all I've been doing -- writing Christmas letters, writing articles, writing scrapbook captions, by the time I get to the blog I have a serious case of writer's block. Sometimes I know what I want to write about but my head is spinning and with this cold, it's just been plain stuffy. Plus, try writing something creative after you've worked all day mapping out an article on appraisers. So, I've posted Christmas cards and photos, waiting for my battery to recharge.

I've found sometimes that the best way to write an article that I am struggling with is to try doing something else. So, to re-energize I've been playing with my new Lensbaby lens. Friday, before the sore throat got too bad, I went outside and played in the snow with my nephew and his girlfriend taking pictures. I looked up at the tree in the front yard and saw this nest. I've been seeing a lot of nests this season and have even written about it here. Perhaps it's because the trees have been bare so long without snow, though there is plenty of snow now. I love nests. If you look at them closely, you can see the resourcefulness of their makers -- I have seen some garnished with plastic shopping bags and caution tape. The birds that make them are survivors, creating homes from sticks and straw, garbage and dirt. They speak of comfort, home, nurturing, and hard work.

This nest was in Vader's tree, the tree I look him to sit under before he died. Back then, in June, it was leafy and green, a wonderful canopy of life above our heads. The sun shone through the leaves, white, dazzling, beautiful. This tree is bare, the sun hidden behind the cold, blue winter sky. But there in what appears to be a blustery winter scene sits this nest, a testament to life. And, despite the cold and the stress, the deadlines and the writer's block, I rise up to embrace it.