To say that Madeleine L'Engle was my favorite author as a child (and young woman) is probably putting it mildly. My name is scrawled on the library card of all her books countless times...I would renew them several times in a row, and perhaps, the next year, you would find my name there again. The Wrinkle in Time trilogy was a great favorite of course, and Meet the Austins. But my favorite of her books for young adults was, oddly enough, Camilla, the story of a teenager whose life is changed when her father has an affair with another woman, an oddly prescient choice for me, as this would happen in my own life some 15 years after I first read the novel. Ms. L'Engle died last Thursday, at the age of 88. I've been skimming through her Crosswicks Journal, a trilogy of memoirs written in the early 1970's (which is when I purchased and read them). It's been interesting to note what I underlined in these books~this passage stood out tonight: "I am, for better or worse, writer, wife, mother, and all these bits of me are inseparably blended to make up the human being who is-or who is not-responsible. The story comes, and it is pure story. That's all I set out to write. But I don't believe that we can write any kind of story without including, whether we intend to or not, our response to the world around us." "The writing of a book may be a solitary business; it is done alone. The writer sits down with paper and pen, or typewriter, and, withdrawn from the world, tries to set down the story that is crying to be written. We write alone, but we do not write in isolation. No matter how fantastic a story line may be, it still comes out of our response to what is happening to us and to the world in which we live." I thank her for sharing her stories with me.
Sunday Scribblings-Writing
"Writing, the creative effort, the use of the imagination, should come first, - at least for some part of every day of your life. It is a wonderful blessing if you will use it. You will become happier, more enlightened, alive, impassioned, light-hearted, and generous to everybody else. Even your health will improve. Colds will disappear and all the other ailments of discouragement and boredom." Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write At last, a cure for the common cold, and all other pesky ailments of modern life. Pick up a pen and some paper, park yourself in front of computer screen or even dust the cobwebs off the old Olivetti (that's a typewriter, for those of you too young to remember). Write every day, and, like eating an apple, you'll be warding the doctor from your door. Sounds ridiculous, but perhaps there really is something to Ms. Ueland's thesis. Writing may not literally protect you from germs or disease, but I believe writing does strengthen the spirit as well as the mind. Since I've taken up the habit of writing in earnest, pledging myself to putting words on the page every day, I realize my mind works differently, exercising muscles in my brain that had lain fallow for years. My vision of the world around me is more intense, my eyes and ears more observant to the details of appearance and conversation, my heart more open and empathetic to others. I have become a keen observer of life in general and my own in particular, more aware of the things that spark anger or move me to tears. I am more alive when I write. I cherish life more when I write about it. When I was very young, I harbored dreams about becoming a "real writer." What was that? Someone whose name was on the cover of books, or underneath the headline in the New York Times. Someone whose words were read and acclaimed by "the world." When that dream failed to materialize, I let writing disappear from my life, sure that if I couldn't be one of those "real writers," there was no value in pursuing it at all. But I have come to believe as Brenda Ueland (and many other writers) believe - that "no writing is a waste of time, no creative work where the feelings, the imagination, the intelligence must work. With every sentence you write, you have learned something. It has done you good. It has stretched your understanding." So I continue to put words on paper - in the dozens of notebooks I have scattered around my house, and on the computer screen in front of me now, sometimes on the backs of grocery receipts or paper napkins at the coffee shop. I allow words to unravel from my brain like thread from a dropped spool - quickly, sometimes crazily - onto the page, holding the essence of some thought, some image, some impression, some snippet of conversation that seems to carry meaning for a moment. I look at the world like a poem, and try to capture my seconds on earth in each stanza. I write.
to read more about writing, go here
The Subtle Rewards of Sickness
There is something oddly comforting about being sick, of wandering around in a medication induced fog, shuffling from room to room in baby soft yoga pants and yellow slipper socks, some book or other held open by it's spine and wrapped around my middle like a protective shield. I have allowed myself to succumb to the entreaties of my husband and my friends~go to bed, rest, drink lots of hot tea, watch mindless television. In fact, dare I admit that it's a tiny dream come true? The evil bacteria that have lodged so peremptorily in my throat and sinuses have perhaps given me a small gift. And I have quite willingly abdicated my responsibilities for the past two days. I have not worked, or shopped, or gone to the bank or the pharmacy. I have not walked the dogs, nor cooked or cleaned. I have allowed others to do those things for me, without protest, without even the slightest nudge of guilt poking me in the shoulder and urging me to my feet. I could perhaps get used to this. Alas, I feel this coming to an end as the marvelous wonder that is medicine begins at last to work its magic in my bloodstream, gobbling up the vile germy invaders, flushing them out like the vermin they are. My head is beginning to clear slightly, and the room doesn't spin each time I move. I can take a deep breath without the air stopping dead somewhere midway between my lungs and my esophagus, or suffering paroxysms of the seal-like bark that has been masquerading as my cough. By tomorrow, I may be nearly as good as new. Already, I can feel my husband retreating to his usual safe place in the corner of daily life, the silent observer who patiently waits for all the necessities to be handled, smoothly and competently, and as they always are, by me. Sigh. It crosses my mind that perhaps one should not wait for illness to strike to allow themselves an occasional retreat from the dailiness of living. Perhaps a "me day" every so often is not out of order, a day to wander around the house in floppy yoga pants and yellow slipper socks, a day to eat only toast with honey or chocolate cake if those are the things the palate desires, a day to have an open book on every comfy chair in the house, ready to be picked up as you amble through the room, a day of not answering telephones, not paying bills, not reading the mail. A day to just be. Hmm. I think I'm on to something.
Sailing Through September
Usually, I love September with its crisp bite in the morning breeze, the first tracings of crimson and gold on leaf tips, and (of course!) school supplies, my ultimate favorite binge buy. But this year, September has betrayed me. It's not only the weather, still heavy and dull with August-like heat and humidity. My own body has turned on me, and quite viciously too. Admittedly, this all started in August, when I had my annual physical. Within a couple of days, I got the first phone call. "Rebecca, Doctor wants to call in a prescription for you." "A prescription?" I ask innocently. "What for?" "Your cholesterol is 236 and she'd like to put you on medication." Okay, I guess. I mean, that's not horribly high, but I'll take the medication (rather than completely forsake toasted cheese and bacon and tomato sandwiches). And I've been taking my Lovastatin, luckily without suffering any of the several zillion grim side effects so neatly listed on the prescription insert. Then Monday, while we're in Florida trying to have a tiny vacation, I start feeling the unmistakeable scratchy throat, itchy eyes, and watery nose that spell URI (upper respiratory infection). This does not come as a huge surprise~when I visited my mother in law the night before we left, she was sick and coughing, as were several of her "neighbors" in the Alzheimer's facility. Those places are a hotbed of germs, and it would have been a miracle to get out of there unscathed, no matter that I virtually scrubbed my hands raw with antibacterial wipes and gels when I left. What starts as a cold quickly moves into my bronchial tubes (the weak spot of all child astmatics) and by Tuesday morning not only can I not talk, I'm gasping for breath~and I'm facing a three hour plane trip at the end of the day. This time, I call the doctor's office and say I need a prescription, which they kindly provide. Except that our local Walgreen's is out of the medication (and so apparently is every other Walgreen's in Naples, Florida, and believe me, there are just as many there as everywhere else in the US). So I board the plane decongestant-less. Everything is fine going up, but as soon as we started to descend, so did I. Had it not been for the kind ministrations of my seat mate (who was not my husband because we couldn't get seats together!) and several flight attendants with ice packs, cold cloths, and ginger ale, I probably would have spent the last 20 minutes of the flight stretched out unconscious on the floor. As it was, I came pretty close. You better believe I was glad to get home last night. My old house never looked so good, and I'm not planning on flying again anytime in the near future (if ever). Unfortunately, I made the mistake of listening to the messages on my answer machine before I went to bed. "Rebecca, this is Doctor's office. Please call us as soon as possible~this is about your mammogram." Well, God. Do you think I slept at all last night? You're right. I did not. Sure enough, they want me to come in and have a "some more pictures done." Won't tell me why, but I'm smart enough to know it isn't because they need additional views to put on the cover of Mammography Monthly. You'd think that would be enough, wouldn't you? Nope, September is out to get me. About an hour ago, the phone rings again. "Rebecca, this is Doctor's office. Doctor wants to call in a prescription for you." "Good grief!" I yelp. "What now?" "This is about your bone scan. For Actonel." "What are the T scores?" I ask. I know a little about bone scans. "Well, I don't have those. She just wants you to take this medication." Bother with that. I'm quickly reaching my limits with medications, and I've heard about this Actonel you take once a week, and then can't lay down or drink for 30 minutes later because of potential gastrointestinal side effects. Nope. "Call me back when you have the T score," I tell her. "And I don't want to take Actonel." "How about Evista?" she offers. "We have some samples here." "I'm not taking Evista," I refuse adamantly. My mother in law (the one in the Alzheimer's center) has taken that for 15 years, and it's been linked to dementia. "How about Miacalcin?" that's the nasal spray my mother takes for her osteoporosis. "Sure, that's fine," she says happily. Of course, she didn't call me back with the T-score. I called again and made them look it up. If you've managed to read through all this, you're probably feeling a lot like me~either ready to laugh or cry. Sometimes I think the scariest thing about facing potential serious illness is not the disease itself but navigating the world of modern medicine. So wish me luck as I set off through these evidently stormy September seas.
Encyclopedia of Me Monday: D is for...
D O G S !
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Magic and Molly, wading in Lake Huron
My dogs are part of my family, and always have been. Ginger, the cocker spaniel we had during my childhood, was the long suffering participant in my efforts at playing school, house, doctor, and every other game that I would have used a younger sibling for (if I had been fortunate enough to have one!) When Jim and I were first married, we practiced our parenting skills with Buffy, the cocker puppy we brought home on our first anniversary.
After we lost Buffy, we went almost 15 years without getting another dog. Why, I'll never know. Magic came to me from a friend, who bred her own Shih Tzu in 2002, and offered me "pick of the litter." We fell so in love with this breed, that it didn't take long to decide we wanted another, and so Molly came to live with us in August of 2004.
Naturally, I think my dogs are the cutest, smartest, most adorable dogs ever ~ sort of the same way I feel about my kid! But I love all dogs, and if there's one thing I cannot abide in any way, shape, or form, it's cruelty to animals.
So, it's love me, love my dogs...or hit the highway!