Life Goes On

Life in general has been quiet these days. I’m waiting every so impatiently for spring to come, and the sight of minuscule star-shaped snowflakes trickling from the clouds this morning was not the sight I hoped to see on the 27th day of March. Still, I will bundle up again (winter coat, earmuffs, gloves) and walk the dogs and try to ignore the frosty wind, thankful at least that the pavement is dry.

I have settled into a pattern this winter, getting up very early to drink my first two cups of coffee in the quiet house, wrapped in a warm sweater and curled into my corner of the couch. I write my morning pages, go down in the basement to exercise (yes, I still do the Walk at Home program with Leslie Sansone!), and eventually make it back to the kitchen counter for breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fruit. By this time, everybody else is getting up, so it’s time to take the dogs out, prepare breakfast for Jim, and let the rest of the world in on my day.

If I were to choose a favorite time of day, it would most certainly be those few hours in the morning when I’m the only one awake, the house still and safe around me, the promise of the day bright and shining in front of me. Those precious minutes when there are no demands on my time, when no one needs anything from me, those hours I call only my own - those are golden. 

I’ve never minded being alone - of course, I’ve never had a steady diet of it, never lived alone as a permanent state of being. I went directly from my parents house to my own house with a husband. I never spent one night alone until I’d been married about two years and Jim went off on a business trip. 

That was a long and restless night, I can tell you: I was acutely aware of every thump and creak in the house, and drifted off to sleep only in fits and starts. But he traveled a lot, and I got used to it soon enough.

We get used to things, don’t we? We grow accustomed to the little changes life throws our way. I’m used to going outside with the dogs now, rather than having the convenience of letting them out the backdoor into the fenced yard. And they have become accustomed to hurrying out, taking care of business, and being herded back inside, waiting for their daily walks to satisfy the need for sniffing and meandering.

I’m used to waking up too early every day, the shifting hormones in my body going through their mysterious cycles and waking me up before first light. I’ve come to enjoy it, see it as a gift, and make the most of it, even though in these early spring days it means I’m often struggling to stay awake before it’s completely dark outside.

We settle into our routines quite easily, and the older we get, the more deeply ingrained in them we become. That hour or two in the morning with my coffee and a book is absolutely sacred to me. Maintaining that little routine governs more of my activities than you might think. I never schedule appointments early in the morning, I’ve turned down jobs because they would required early morning start times.  There were many, many years when I shot out of bed and jumpstarted the day - breakfast, carpooling, work. 

But no more. One of the benefits of my current stage of life is the ability to slow down, to step back and know what I need in the day and then find a way to make that happen. 

I ordered a t-shirt the other day because I loved the sentiment emblazoned on the front: 

happy. healthy. balanced. peaceful. life.

As life goes on for me, it’s exactly what I seek for my future.

Most days lately I’ve been fortunate enough to find it. 

But only if I get that two hours in the morning with my coffee and a book. 

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.