Earth Shattering

For my generation, it was the second “where were you when...” event in our lifetime. For my mother, it was the third such occasion.

Unforgettable days like these - December 7, 1941, November 22, 1963, September 11, 2001 - are etched in the memory of every American who lived through them. They become landmarks in our personal history as well as in the history of our nation. And what happens as a result of cataclysmic occurrences like Pearl Harbor and John Kennedy’s assasination and the terrorist attacks changes the course of every living person on the planet.

Earth shattering.

Stephen King’s novel, 11-22-63, does a marvelous job of revealing the way the course of history can be changed by one event. I sometimes forget that one historical action leads to a series of reactions that shape the future. Without the impetus - the action that sets the dominos falling - the future becomes completely different. In King’s novel, we see his vision of a modern American had Kennedy lived to fulfill his term.

And it isn’t pretty.

Of course that’s just fiction, and Stephen King’s fiction at that, so we don’t expect it to be rosy. But it clarified what a stunning impact one event can have on the future of the world.

So on this anniversary of one particularly earth shattering event, I can’t help but wonder how life eleven years later would be different if those terrorists had been stopped at the security gates, if they’d never been allowed on those planes that beautiful fall morning.

How the world would be different if those same men had grown up without all that hatred in their heart.

If we could all tolerate the diverse beliefs and opinions that exist throughout the universe.

If we could all live in peace.

Earth shattering.

The Sunday Salon: Slow is Beautiful, A Guest Post by Barbara Richardson

The Sunday Salon is  about gathering together to talk about all things bookish, and I’m pleased to have a visitor this Sunday to do just that. 

Settle in, let me pour you some tea or coffee, and say hello to Barbara Richardson, whose novel Tributary was one of the books I thoroughly enjoyed during My Summer of Reading Historically. 

Slow is Beautiful

I remember a Rilke quote, an insight from that wise and sensitive poet, suggesting life is a closed envelope and nearly all of us just pass the envelope along to the next generation. Few open it. Few even try. Almost no one realizes the envelope is addressed to them. To us. To you.

That letter from the universe waits in your hands. You are the recipient. The mystery, of course, is how to open the envelope. Every day. Every minute of every day.

I know one thing that will raise your odds: slow down. I learned this from my own speedball past. I have actually been called “Speedball” by a loved one. And, by a co-worker, “a squirrel on crack.” Being speedy meant I could deliver, oh, a few thousand unopened envelopes a day and still feel ridiculously disconnected from my life.

E. M. Forster, another wise sensitive writer, says, “Only connect.”

When I move slowly through my life, I recognize, “I am the envelope.” The objective of my days is to open and see and receive. If you find yourself unhappy and unfulfilled, try slowing down and savoring. Honestly, the human system is made for that. You’ll be good at it. When you try.

By the end of my new novel Tributary, my heroine Clair Martin receives and opens her life letter. What is inside that letter? I hope you’ll go with Clair on the journey to find out.

Speed gets you nowhere quickly. Please slow down. Be an elephant. Spray sun-warmed water on your dry back. Roll in the dust, remembering your eternal connectedness.

There IS no time like the present. And Elephants never forget.

I couldn’t agree more, Barbara. Life is best lived when savored slowly and mindfully. The modern world doesn’t make that easy for us, so thank you for this thoughtful reminder.  And for something to enjoy from the kitchen, visit Barbara’s blog to get Clair Martin’s yummy recipe for Clair’s Windfall Applesauce.

Write On Wednesday: Editor at Large

This process of moving house has become an exercise in revision. For weeks, I’ve been going over all my possessions with a fine tooth comb - must I have four sets of casserole dishes? five travel mugs? half a dozen different styles of placemats? How many black purses do I really need? So I red-pencil items like a good editor would do extraneous words, consigning them to trash bags, donation bins, Craig’s List.

It’s been surprisingly easy to jettison all this baggage, and I feel lighter and freer by the moment. I’m almost loathe to take anything at all to the new house, am delighted at the thought of being pared down to the most bare of essentials.

That’s what a well-written piece of writing is like, isn’t it? Pared down to bare essentials.

The key is knowing what words are essential.

“The secret of good writing is to strip every sentence to its cleanest components,” writes William Zinsser in On Writing Well, a copy of which I found buried in a chest of drawers in my bedroom during yesterday’s cleaning. “Every word that serves no function, every long word that could be a short word, every adverb which carries the same meaning that is already in the verb, every passive construction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what - these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken the strength of a sentence."

Like my cupboards overflowing with coffee mugs and dresser drawers spilling scarves, socks, and costume jewelry, Zinsser shakes a red-ink stained finger at clutter - “the disease of American writing.”  Clear your head of it, he exhorts the writer. “Clear thinking becomes clear writing."

But I can’t help but wonder (a phrase Zinsser would strike right through with red pen) - can things be too clear? Does writing stripped so clean and uncluttered lack some undefinable personality, a spark of cachet to endear it to the reader? This comes to mind as I peruse the top of my piano, the family photographs, the crystal candlesticks, the tiny sculpture of a woman with arms spread wide in joy. Each of these items could be classified as clutter, yet each one means something to me. Like beautiful, descriptive language, each one adds a touch of beauty to the room.

It’s a fine line, this process of revision.

What to leave in. What to leave out.

While my impulse at this moment is to clear out all the clutter, when all is said and done will I survey my surroundings and feel that something is missing?

The challenge is to strike a balance between the two.

I hope I’m up for it.

Off Kilter - But Who Cares?

It’s no surprise that my schedule (schedule? I have a schedule?) is awry. Moving has a way of throwing all of one’s best laid plans into a tizzy. My grand plan in consolidating my three blogs was to write about Life in General on Mondays and Fridays, leaving Wednesdays for Write On, and Sunday’s for The Sunday Salon book talk. Last week, none of that really happened.

Oh well.

I’m seriously unflappable these days. That's surprising considering my life is about to go catty-wumpus with the final move about three weeks away, followed closely by my Grandson’s first visit to Michigan.

But just when I’d expect myself to be frantic, I’m feel like I’m floating -  simply doing what I can do and not sweating the rest. It’s a little bit like being on anti-depressants. Everything feels pretty darn good, and I want everyone I know to be there with me.

This is such a big departure for me, and I’m almost afraid to say it out loud lest I awaken the sleeping giants of anxiety and depression that usually haunts me whenever a big change is in the wind. For the first time in my life, I’m allowing myself to believe in signs, to follow my instincts.

And this overall sense of well being has to be a sign that everything we’re doing is right.

My presence on these pages is likely to be amorphous for the days and weeks ahead.

Just think of me - not with my nose to the grindstone - but wafting through cyberspace on a cloud of pleasant anticipation and contentment.

I wish I could beam you all up here with me.

The End of Summer

  In my mind, Labor Day weekend always marks the emotional end of summer.

The first imprecations of autumn have already begun creeping in. Though there will still be plenty of hot days, still be plenty of occasions for wearing shorts and sandals, there is an undeniable hint of chill in the morning air. Dusk falls faster and earlier. Clothes take longer to dry on the line.

Things are changing, friends.

This weekend I will put up my summer purse, lay aside my white sandals and shorts.

I will place mountainous pots of yellow mums on the front porch at Brookwood Court.

I will search out t-shirts and blouses in colors like sage and cranberry and ochre.

I will open a brand new spiral notebook, take out a shiny new pen for new stories to write.

Soon I will also cut back the dried hostas and daylilies for the very last time.

Wind up the backyard clotheslines, perhaps forever.

Put the old back porch chairs out front on trash day.

The emotional end of summer this year is also a rather emotional end of my last full season in this house. I am mindful now of all the things I do for the last time. There is still a sense of unreality to it, this moving business. Even though this week I emptied all the drawers in my writing room desk, transferred the clothes from the winter closet to the new house instead of to their home in my bedroom here. There are bags and boxes scattered throughout the rooms here, separated for trash, for donation, for re-homing to Brookwood Court.

When people ask me if I’ve moved yet, I keep saying that “it’s a process.”

Like the changing of the seasons, little things are happening which herald the big change to come.

Emotional endings, all around.