The Sunday Salon: Another Time

If you were to glance at my reading list for this year, you might think I was a student of history. So far this year I’ve read 23 books, and 10 of them were “historical novels.”  My trusty reading chair has become a virtual time machine, letting me explore England during the time periods of both World Wars, an artist’s atelier in late 18th century Paris, and midwifery in Appalachia during the 1950’s. Even my contemporary fiction choices have not brought me into the present day, but pushed me back into the late 20th century, with novels set in the 1960’s and 1990’s. 

This all has me thinking - why am I gravitating toward the past? 

Reading is more than my favorite pastime. Sometimes I think it’s almost like therapy...I read to learn about people, and how they conduct their lives and relationships. The characters in the novels I love most are those I can identify with, who are struggling with some of the same issues as I do as we go about our lives in general. Just this morning, I read the following paragraph in Jennifer Robson’s novel, After the War is Over that reminded me of similar sentiments which show up in my journal pages and on my blog:

“When had she ever spent an entire day having fun? She was thirty-three, and in the course of her adult life, she now realized she had never, not ever, allowed herself an entire day of fun without being overcome by guilt or anxiety or the rear that there were worthier things to do. Having fun was for other people - people who earned the right to be carefree.” 

I’ve sometimes felt as if I were born in the wrong era, as if I would have been happier growing up as my parents did in the 1930’s and 1940’s. Now that I’ve spent nearly six decades on earth, I begin to feel even more outside of time as the 21st century speeds past. I love my technology as much as the next person, but sometimes I get frightened at the way it seems to control our lives. I worry about a generation of children who depend on technology for entertainment, education, and interpersonal relationships. 

No matter what era they’re set in, the historical novels I read remind me of times when entertainment was gentler and life was slower, when communication was much more personal, when people were more mindful of the natural world and it’s cycles. 

This winter has been difficult for me. In addition to extreme cold and snow, I’ve been ill off and on all winter, and I’m still feeling fragile, as if I’m on a precipice and just one misstep from plunging over.

So I lose myself in these novels of other times and places to forget those things in modern life that seem threatening, but also to remind myself of the common ground we all share in this life in general, no matter what time period we’re living in.

These are the historical novels I’ve read since January:

Romancing Miss Bronte

Amherst

The Paying Guests

In This House of Brede

The Visitors

The Secret Life of Violet Grant

The Midwife of Hope River

Secrets of  A Charmed LIfe

Rodin’s Lover

After the War is Over

Rejoicing in Relaxation

Last week we spent a few days in Dallas with our son and his family. We had been hoping for warmer weather, and Texas obliged us for the first couple of days, enabling us to take some nice walks in their neighborhood.

Our grandson is a walker. He eschewed the stroller a long time ago and doesn’t much care for his tricycle. I having a feeling he’s going to prefer his own two feet for transportation - at least until he gets a set of four wheels and an engine to move him from place to place. 

One afternoon he decided we needed to take a walk to the park and check out the fountains in a large estuary pond. His mom was taking a much needed afternoon rest, so the two of us set out on our own. Connor kept up a steady stream of conversation all the way to the fountains, which I’d estimate is at least 3/4 of a mile. We spent some time discussing the state of disrepair of one of the fountains, a subject he finds endlessly fascinating. We watched the ducks waddle around (the ducks in Texas are HUGE, like everything else in this larger than life state), and counted people going by on bicycles.

About halfway home, I could tell his short legs were getting tired. Heck, MY short legs were getting tired. We had reached the playground opposite their subdivision, so I suggested we take a rest. We found some large boulders and sat down to watch the kids at their games.

Connor scooted up close to me and popped two fingers in his mouth, his little security habit. We sat in silence for about 10 minute, just observing some older boys and girls hanging from the balance bars, riding their bikes around the paths, climbing trees. 

“Isn’t this nice?” Connor said. “We are just relaxing."

“It is SO nice,” I agreed. What could be better than to sit quietly in the sun with a three year old who was happily content to watch the world go by?

Another 15 minutes went by, and I admit I was starting to get a little antsy. That rock was not the most comfortable sitting spot, after all. “Are you ready to head home?” I asked him hopefully.

“Not yet,” he said. “Let’s just keep relaxing."

I shifted my hind quarters around a little bit and got myself as comfortable as possible. Connor started a running commentary about the cars going by, identifying each one as belonging to one or another of his menagerie of stuffed animals. “That’s Ping’s car right there,” he said, pointing to a Jeep Cherokee driving down the street. “Ping is coming home from work. Harvie will be coming soon. And then the scooters will be coming out at 17 o’clock."

We continued our “relaxing” for about 10 more minutes. “Let’s go see Mommy now,” Connor suddenly announced, so I unfolded myself from our relaxing spot and we finished walking home with renewed energy.

As any grandmother will attest, these are the kinds of moments that are as precious as gold. We weren’t doing anything, we didn’t have any books or toys (or ELECTRONICS!) we were just relaxing and enjoying each others company. This is so rare in today’s world when we always feel the impulse to be busy doing something productive or else choose to connect ourselves to outside sources of entertainment. But everything is endlessly fascinating for little kids - the fountain that doesn’t work, the ducks that come begging for bread crumbs, the bigger kids hanging off tree branches and teasing each other. Even the steady stream of cars going by can spark their imagination. 

That’s what I want more of in my life - that willingness to slow down, take it all in, observe and notice and wonder.  I suspect there is a lot of time within my daily routine that I allow to be sucked up by “busy work,” the kind of stuff that’s akin to the mimeographed worksheets our elementary teachers used to hand out when they were sick and tired of us and needed a few minutes to regroup. 

My new goal every day - relax more. I don’t want to plan it, I don’t want to schedule it, I just want to recognize when there is an opportunity to revel in it and not allow myself to succumb to the call of the internet or the laundry or the cooking or the shopping or the bill paying.

Of course, it won’t be quite the same without my little companion by my side, or our nice rock to sit on.

But I’m going to rejoice in it all the same.

How about you? Do you take time to really relax each day?

Write On Wednesday: Opening Your Heart

“Too many women, writers and non-writers, are scared to open up on the page, don’t trust their voice, let alone their stories. Too many women know how much writing, whether it be personal expressive writing, writing for publication or for longer projects, helps to connect with their truths but don’t prioritize practice.” Kira Elliot, Leader of Writing to Open Your Heart workshops

An acquaintance recently mentioned that since reading Life In General she’d like to sit down and tell me her own life story. “I want you to know more about me,” she said, “since I feel as if I know so much about you."

I had to laugh as I replied, “Yes, my life is definitely an open book these days!"

It’s true. The pages of Life In General contain eight years of open hearted writing. In each one of those blog posts, I “opened up” on the page - about aging, about mothering, about the empty nest, about caring for elderly parents, about loss and change and hope for the future. Writing those essays the first time taught me the truth of Kira Elliot's statement: Writing helps me connect with my truths. This was reinforced even more strongly when I revisited the essays during the process of compiling my book. I was reminded of how important family and legacy are to me, how reading, writing, and music are the foundations of my creative existence, how necessary it is for me to have quiet and reflective time in each day, how my ordinary rituals and daily routines can be sacred and healing.  

Just as my writing helped me connect with my own truths, I have found it so rewarding to hear the ways my stories have helped others reconnect with their own. I have been privileged to sit in conversation with friends who open their hearts to me with stories about their lives I’d never heard before. I am honored to meet new friends who have read the book and feel comfort from the connection of our shared experiences as we go through life in general together.

I  believe we all have a deep inner need to share stories, to open our hearts to one another. From these shared stories we take comfort, we deepen our sense of compassion, we celebrate our diversity in the midst of our common ground. 

Although I realize not everyone feels called to write, for me writing has been a consistent path straight into the heart of my emotions and experiences. Sharing my discoveries has given me a gift of connections that are comforting, validating, and energizing. 

Perhaps you’re interested in learning more about opening your heart on the page. Kira Elliott is offering a free one hour live video training about creating an open hearted writing practice. And do subscribe to Kira’s wonderful blog, which is filled with open hearted goodness.

The Sunday Salon: Bookish Birthday Gifts and a Gift from Me to You

For a period of years in the mid 1960’s, my cousin Cora gave me one of Laura Ingalls Wilder's “Little House” books for my birthday every year. The gift was especially meaningful since Cora was the cousin I most admired - she was about 15 years older than I, and she had gone to college, something no one else in the family had done. I knew next to nothing about college, except that my parents regularly alluded to the fact that I would someday attend as well. Because I loved school, and college was School with a Capitol S, I looked forward to going with eager anticipation. Cora was the only one in the family who gave me books as gifts, and in my mind this conferred a special connection between us. We were both readers, and that set us apart from the rest of the family.

Of course I loved reading the Little House books, and would re-read the year’s book several times before my birthday rolled around again. There was no question of “jumping ahead” in the series and taking out the next one from the library. For that entire year I lived with whatever adventures the Ingalls' family were undertaking as I waited for the next installment to arrive in early March. 

Books were my preferred friends and companions in those days. I was a quiet only child, growing up in a suburban Catholic neighborhood, surrounded my families of five, six, seven, children. Although I enjoyed playing with other children, I was happiest curled up somewhere with a book. I felt connected to the characters in books the way I didn’t always feel connected to the living, breathing children in my neighborhood or classroom. That’s the wonderful thing about books - they connect us to people and experiences and worlds we might never otherwise consider. They invite us to question and explore, they give solace and support.

At least they always have for me.

I still have all those Little House books, the hardcover editions, on a special shelf downstairs. My son wasn’t particularly interested in them, which isn’t surprising. He loved mysteries and ghost stories and, later, satire and Star Trek. I kept his favorite books from infancy through childhood, and parcel them out to my grandson at appropriate times. I don’t have any illusions that my grandson will care about Laura and Mary Ingalls either, so I suspect those books will stay with me until someone packs up my final effects.

People rarely buy me books anymore, which I completely understand. Even though books are my favorite gift (aside from jewelry) how would anyone know what I’ve read and what I haven’t? My mother often gives me Barnes and Noble gift cards which are a fine substitute, and I judiciously hoard them to use on titles I know I want to maintain in my permanent library. 

One of the most meaningful bookish gifts I ever received was from my husband, many years ago. We were in our early 30’s at the time, he was working long, hard hours and I was finishing up my college (I did go, but in fits and spurts over a period of 10 years). The book was The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath; this purchase was touching evidence that despite his busyness and preoccupation with his own work, he had paid attention to my interests of the time. 

I’ve kept that book as well, even though I never read the poems anymore.

All this to say, tomorrow is my birthday, and there are a couple of books I’m coveting for myself this year. One is A Spool of Blue Thread, Anne Tyler’s latest (and she says her Last) novel. The other is Kristin Hannah’s The Nightingale, which many people have said moved them to tears. I am thinking of starting my own birthday book buying tradition, taking myself to the bookstore tomorrow and purchasing a gift from me to me. 

I’m also inviting you to my bookish birthday celebration and giving away one copy of my own book, Life In General. Enter to win by leaving a comment here - tell me about your favorite bookish gift, or simply say “I’m in.” A winner will be chosen by random drawing on Sunday, March 15.

And whatever you’re reading this Sunday, may it connect you with satisfying thoughts, ideas, and emotions. 

Wish List

Amazon has a very cool feature they call a “Wish List.” It’s a place to digitally file items you wish for, and though mine is usually filled with books, occasionally something out of the ordinary will creep onto it. (Right now, the odd item is a camera that takes instant photos, because sometimes it’s just nice to hold  a paper photo in your hand - instantly.) If and/or when people might be shopping for a gift for you, perhaps because it’s your birthday in few days (hint), they can go to your Wish List, find and item, and presto chango with one quick click it’s on its way to your door.

My Amazon Wish List is fairly sparse in comparison to many others. That’s because I’m not much interested in things you can buy from Amazon. Remember, it wasn’t all that long ago that I spent a lot of time, and effort (emotionally and physically) dispensing with the kinds of things that are so easy to obtain from places like Amazon and it’s equivalents. 

No, it’s not stuff I wish for these days. Most of my wishes during this long dreary winter would fall into the "turning back the clock" category, something no one has yet manage to make possible. So on this Thursday, a few days before I slip into the last year of my fiftieth decade, here in completely random order, is my real Wish List...

~To be walking hand in hand with my grandfather, our dog trotting faithfully at his heels, tramping around in the woods behind the first house I remember, carrying my tiny Remington cap gun rifle and “hunting” for rabbits. 

~To be riding my purple sting ray bike with the white banana seat and the multi-colored handlebar streamers down the middle of the street, gossiping gaily with my friends Lisa, Jenny, and Jill.

~To have one more conversation with my Dad, a conversation in which I could tell him for sure that I loved him, appreciated him, was sorry if I had ever disappointed him, and that I once and for all understood and forgave him.

~To have a garage big enough to hold every car my husband every loved - from the 1971 black Mach One Mustang, the 1979 Bandit Trans Am, right on through to the 1998 Red WS6 Trans Am - all in pristine condition and ready to drive at a moment’s notice.

~To duplicate in real time a snapshot I found the other day, taken on a sunny Easter morning in the early 1980’s, where I am sitting between my parents on the porch of Western Golf and Country Club, watching my four-year old son in his navy blue Easter suit run around the greens hunting for chocolate eggs.

~To wander through the Victoria Gardens in Niagara Falls, holding hands with my husband on the morning after our wedding, and feel like the luckiest 20 year old girl in the world.

~To come driving down our old street and see Brian’s Grand Prix parked in the driveway and know he was home safe and sound, sitting happily at his computer blasting digital enemies with machine guns in the latest version of Wolfenstein or Duke Nukem.

~To accompany Choralation singing Captain My Captain at State Solo and Ensemble and not have them go flat in the acapella section.

~To spend a winter in our house in Naples. No, I’m going to be greedy, it’s my wish list after all. To spend forever in our house in Naples. 

~To see my little Magic - who has become cranky enough in his old age to be banned from the groomer and thus is subject to my ineffectual chopping and shearing - once more time beautifully groomed and bathed as only my friend Tami can do.

~To take my mom shopping at Hudson’s (not Macy’s or even Marshall Fields, which my Detroit friends will understand) and have Maurice Salad for lunch. 

I’m sure most of you could put a similar wish list together in a matter of moments, like I just did with this one. It’s often the little things that stand out in our memories, that recall entire eras of our lives, that tug at our heartstrings and make us yearn. 

It makes me wonder, of course - what is happening in my life right now that might be on a similar list in 15 or 20 years, when I’m on the brink of 70 or 80 or maybe even 90 years of age? What will I long for in those years? The minor aches, pains, and infirmities my 50’s have ushered in, the gray hairs, the lines around the eyes, the wobbles in the neck (and I do feel bad about my neck, Nora Ephron), those might be extremely appealing as reckoned against changes yet to come. The days that are now sometimes just a little too empty, a little too lonely, may seem full by comparison to unforseen days in the future.

“You can’t wish back time,” my mother has said with a sigh, and I suspect she is recalling her own personal wish list when she says it. You can’t, it’s true. But maybe wishing for the things that were once so precious in your past can help you find what’s precious in the here and now, even if that seems at first look to be “precious little."

With that thought in mind, here is my Present List...

~Having coffee each morning in the sitting nook of our beautiful bedroom, the sun streaming in casting shadow rays across the vaulted ceiling

~A little dark haired boy watching a video of me reading him a story, saying “Pretty cool!” in response.

~Simply knowing said little dark haired boy is in the world, happy, healthy, smart, funny, and exceedingly cute.

~Playing What A Wonderful World with Classical Bells, in full ensemble effect, getting all the nuances and harmonies just right and in perfect synch.

~Taking the ’98 Red TA out for Sunday drives in the summer, wandering hand in hand with my husband through car shows or small towns we happen to find, feeling like the luckiest almost-60 year old in the world.

~Eating home made chicken noodle soup my 88-year old mother still makes for me whenever I’m not feeling well.

These are my gifts for these present days. 

Come to think of it, I really couldn’t wish for more.

How about you? What’s on your wish list?